Cold Blood
by greensight
Summary: Wolf is assigned to interrogate a dangerous assassin who's been brought to Brecon Beacons. The problem is, Wolf used to know him as Cub.
1. prologue

This is a lil prologue. I'll probably post the next chapter in a few days, if people are interested? Plz feed the author, she hungers for reviews.

.

.

Wolf doesn't like assassins.

It comes in the job description, really. His role is to take out life's bad guys, and it's a tough one. He has to make heat of the moment decisions, ones that can get innocent people killed, if he picks the wrong option. So, naturally, he likes it when things are clear cut. Assassins are anything but.

That's part of the reason why he's scowling as he lies flat on the roof of the city building, waiting for the figure to appear in his crosshairs. That, plus the fact that it's hot enough to fry an egg on the sloping metal roof. Bloody assassins. Who else would choose the one week that England happened to be in a heatwave to kill a government official?

"Wolf, come in," says a tinny voice in his ear.

"I'm in position. Can't see a bloody thing."

"You should be able soon," the MI6 liaison informs him. "They've driven him out of the square, so any minute now – hold on—"

Wolf doesn't need to hear any more. A dot has materialised between the thin black lines, moving swiftly across a low rooftop.

"Eyeball on the target."

It's at this point that the expected nerves bubble up in his stomach, but Wolf shoves them down, like he's been doing all his life. This is a contract killer. If anyone deserves a bullet, it's this guy.

"Take the hit," the voice in his ear orders.

Wolf's finger hovers over the trigger. "What if he falls? Don't Six want him alive?"

"Ideally. But they'd rather take him out completely than let him get away."

So this isn't a run-of-the-mill hitman they're dealing with. Wolf wonders idly if it's someone he's come across before. Renowned assassins tend to have short cycles of fame.

He shifts behind the sniper, repositioning. The figure is frustratingly out of reach, shielded by the debris on the roofs in between. He can't risk sending anything tumbling down onto people below, although the area's supposed to be cleared. _Come on_ , Wolf thinks. _Move a little left, you bastard..._

He scales the roof, glances around, and crouches at the edge. He's not going to—?

He is. He's going to jump, right into Wolf's cross-hairs.

It's over remarkably quickly. The figure leaps, flailing, from one roof to the next. It's actually a pretty good jump. Calculated. He probably would have made it.

But Wolf squeezes the trigger at just the right moment.

The black dot plummets like a swatted fly. After a long, tense moment, there's a grim crackling in Wolf's ear.

" _Got him._ "

.

.

"You did well, Wolf. Especially given the target's reputation."

He's standing in the Sergeant's office at Brecon Beacons. After the jeep pulled into the camp, he barely had time to change shirts before being summoned, leaving the other vehicle that returned from London in the courtyard, flanked by its own small army.

"Thank you, sir," he replies dutifully.

"I'm being serious." The Sergeant has a gleam in his eye. "It was nicely done. Very clean. A few more assignments like that and Special Ops will have their eye on you."

"I, uh, appreciate that, sir. But I wouldn't be interested."

The Sergeant's face clears. "No? Didn't think so. Good. In that case, I'm reassigning you."

"… Sir?"

"The job isn't done yet, Wolf. MI6 want the prisoner interrogated here."

The Sergeant slides a piece of paper across the desk, adorned with hastily-scribbled notes.

 _Full security_

 _Extract max. info_

 _Name of contractor, middleman, how R came into contact_

 _Any means necessary_

Wolf's throat tightens a little at the last line, but he says nothing. This isn't his first rodeo. This line of work, he's discovered over the last few years, is less about training yourself out of normal human reactions to things like torture than building the strength to push through them and get the job done.

"You should know, Wolf, that they've personally requested you for the assignment."

Wolf's head snaps up. The Sergeant reaches for something else within his desk.

"This is the assassin we're dealing with," he says, and slides a second piece of paper over to Wolf.

For a moment, Wolf doesn't recognise him. The photograph is blurry, taken at a distance and not from a particularly great angle. But as his eyes trace the disarmingly young features, they fall into place in his mind, reopening memories he hasn't visited in years. Wolf reels back, staring at the Sergeant in disbelief.

"This is the assassin that we're dealing with," the Sergeant repeats, with meaning. "MI6 need to know who organised today's hit."

"But sir…"

"I know, Wolf. Believe me. Everything that's crossing your mind right went through mine, I guarantee it. But that man?" He jabs his finger at the photograph. (Wolf wonders privately if he's even old enough to be considered as a "man".) "Is not Cub. He's wanted in eight different countries. He's responsible for twice that number of deaths. His file is a bloodbath, and that's just what Six is willing to tell us."

Wolf stays silent, trying to absorb the information. It's a gruesome picture, no doubt about it. But it's worryingly difficult to match with his mental image of Cub. The last time he saw him, he was posing as a schoolboy in the French Alps.

The face on the photograph is someone else, someone wiped of emotion.

There has to more to it than the kid going rogue.

"I know that you have every right to be conflicted over this situation. So I'm going to give you a choice, not an order. I report back to Six in half an hour. There'll be no sanction if I tell them that you can't take the assignment because of emotional complications."

A part of Wolf growls at the implication that he'd ever let _emotions_ get in the way of a mission. But another part of him is longingly entertaining the idea of getting into a car, leaving Wales and forgetting fucking Cub ever existed.

 _He's an assassin_ , a voice at the back of his mind whispers. _You shot him on the roof, knowing that. Nothing's changed._

"If I don't take the mission…"

"It'll be reassigned."

"By you, sir?"

The Sergeant doesn't miss a beat. "By MI6."

Well, there go his last remaining hopes of disentangling himself from this shit-show. Wolf places the photograph back on the desk, only letting his eyes linger on Cub's profile for a fraction of a second. No matter what the kid might have done, he can't leave him to the wolves. No pun intended.

"You don't have to worry about emotional complications. I'll take the assignment. I'll interrogate him."


	2. I

Thank you to the beautiful people who reviewed/followed/faved. I have this almost all written (it was going to be a oneshot but I split it for ~drama~) so I'll post each chapter pretty quickly.

.

 **I**

.

They've housed Wolf in K Unit's old barracks. Logically, he knows that countless other soldiers have been and gone and passed through here in the three years since selection. Yet it still feels unnerving to set his bag down on the bunk and hear nothing but empty silence around him.

The camp hasn't changed an awful lot in the time he's been gone. The huts stand as they always did, sparse and perpetually damp from the Welsh weather. The lack of familiar faces, though, is a little disheartening. Wolf will go to his grave before he admits to missing training, but he can't help but wish that another member of K Unit were here with him. He hasn't seen Snake since Jakarta, over a year ago now, and he can't actually remember the last time the four of them were together in the same place.

The new recruits may be wet behind the ears, but that doesn't stop them from staring at Wolf with narrow, assessing eyes as he crosses the grounds. He gets the message: this is a training camp, and he's a fully-fledged member of the SAS. Whatever business he has coming back here is unorthodox, and – well. That was never going to sit well with soldiers.

He throws his shoulders back as he heads over to Cabin 9, refusing to let a bunch of rookies think that they've intimidated him. They haven't, after all.

The MI6 guy on the door greets him with a nod, dropping a cigarette end to crush beneath his heel.

"You're the one they've assigned to Rider?"

Rider: the contract killer who murdered a man less than twenty-four hours ago.

Wolf nods.

He draws himself together as the guard works open the lock, reminding himself that he shouldn't have much of a problem here. It's not like he hasn't done this before. Wolf isn't the man he was when he first set foot in this camp; he's seen enough to fuel a lifetime of nightmares and made tougher decisions than most people will ever be faced with. Whatever's behind that door is well within his capabilities.

It swings open and the guard jerks his thumb.

"Tell me if you need anything."

Wolf assures him that he will.

.

.

He's older than Wolf remembered. That should have been a given, yet it's oddly throwing to see a less childish, more angular face washed out by the lights. The version of Cub he had preserved in his mind is now officially gone, he guesses. Still, he looks more like the kid Wolf met in France than the hard-eyed assassin in the Sergeant's picture. He's also very much unconscious, slumped in a chair with no less than three zip-ties securing his wrists. Either the Sergeant has become even more paranoid about not taking any chances, or Cub's reputation really is that bad.

Wolf gives the room a once-over before snagging a chair of his own and dragging it to a safe distance. The waiting, he thinks, is always the most surprising part about captivity, regardless of which side of the equation you're on.

It doesn't take long for Rider to stir.

"Ah-h…"

Eyes - _familiar_ eyes, far more familiar than Wolf anticipated - blink open stickily. When they fall on Wolf, they widen.

"Cub," Wolf says quietly.

He doesn't get a greeting. Rider's stretches his neck, letting out a deep sigh.

"Is this the part where you start hitting me?"

His voice, for some reason, is like a slap in the face. Wolf keeps his face trained to a careful neutral.

"Depends on whether you're willing to work with me, kid."

He studies Rider closely as he examines his surroundings. He doesn't seem surprised to be waking up tied to a chair, although he seems curious about his cell.

"I think I'll pass," he says lightly. "Headache. Sorry."

Wolf raises an eyebrow. Is he trying to play the tough guy? He looks like hell. The bullet wound has been treated and bandaged, but he doubts that they gave him anything for the pain. Mottled bruising discolours the skin that Wolf can see, the product of being shot out of the sky, ricocheting off a dumpster and falling into a den of MI6 agents.

"Passing isn't an option, I'm afraid."

"When is it ever," Rider mutters.

"Why were you in London?" Wolf begins, not actually expecting a reply. He'd half-counted on this being Rider's first interrogation, hoping that this wouldn't have to get too messy. He's almost certain now that his hope was in vain. He's far too calm and collected.

"I had business there," Rider replies, like he home-delivers grocery shopping or some shit.

"Need specifics, I'm afraid, kid."

Rider's eyes flash. "Then don't fucking call me that, for a start."

Wolf can't help but smirk. "Why not? Come on, you're how old? Nineteen? Twenty?"

"Seventeen," Rider spits. "Not that it's any of your business."

"So long as it's my chair you're tied to, I say it is," Wolf shoots back, but his head is reeling. He thinks back, mentally calculating the years since he last saw Cub. He spent a year slogging through the training process, ten months in Kabul, and about as long on various assignments wherever HQ deemed to send him, so… If Cub is telling the truth, he was fourteen or fifteen when he was last here at Brecon Beacons. When he was sent here by MI6.

Wolf swallows hard. Rider is glaring, clearly waiting for the next question.

"Who wanted your mark dead?" Wolf tries a new angle. They all know he's an assassin; it doesn't need to be the elephant in the room.

If something crosses Rider's face for a moment, it's fleeting, and Wolf dismisses it.

"A man," he answers helpfully.

"That doesn't narrow it down an awful lot."

"A rich man."

"This doesn't have to be hard, Cub."

"What are you honestly hoping to achieve, Wolf? Do you think I'm scared of you? I know this game better than you do. I've been playing it for longer. MI6 have left me here to stew because they think that seeing you will make me _regret_ or something."

"Do you?" Wolf asks with genuine interest.

Rider's expression is closed.

"No. I had my orders, like you have yours. So go and ahead and follow them, Wolf. Torture me. Have a field day. But I can save you the effort by telling you right now that _it isn't going to work_."

Silence descends upon the room. Wolf finds himself shaking his head. "Jesus Christ, kid. What did they do to you?"

"You're gonna have to be more specific," Rider bites out. "Are we talking MI6, Scorpia, or the big bad world of spying in general?"

"It— it isn't too late, Cub. If you wanted to get out of this. This life."

He huffs a mirthless laugh. "What, and join the SAS? I think I'll pass, thanks."

"I'm serious." Wolf shifts forward, half-wishing the kid would look at him, half-glad that he isn't. "Give me what I need and I'll talk to the Sergeant."

Rider laughs even harder. The urge to yell at him, to grab him and shake him, surges through Wolf suddenly. Doesn't he know what's good for him?

For fuck's _sake_.

Over the next hour, Wolf can feel his frustration rising and rising until he can't be in the room any longer. Rider has stopped talking altogether eventually, opting to stare at the ceiling instead. There's only so long that Wolf can question a silent room before it starts to feel like madness.

His legs feel stiff by the time he gives up for the day, leaving his chair and heading for the exit.

"Are you going to fetch bad cop?" he hears Rider call before the slam of the door.


	3. II

**II**

.

"Give you a hard time, did he?"

The guard outside Cub's holding cell is lighting up another cigarette. The end glows against the darkening sky.

Wolf blinks against the sudden cold. His head is too full of the encounter he's just had to formulate a response, but the guard grins reads it in his face, and grins around a mouthful of smoke.

"Habit of his?" Wolf asks, wondering what this guy knows about Rider. He is MI6, after all.

The guard shrugs. "Wouldn't know really, mate. I've never met the kid before. But on the way up here he got one of our agents to take his cuffs off. He was half way out of the van before anybody noticed."

Wolf flashes back to France all of a sudden, recalling how the kid's face had crumpled into tears before that security man, only to lash out at his neck the second he hesitated. His throat tightens uncomfortably. Maybe he's too old to pull that card now, but the guard's story is still all too easy to picture. Injured, bleeding Cub, eyes wide and full of pain, pleading…

"Fucking assassins," he mutters. The guard laughs aloud.

He declines the offer of a smoke, heading to the mess hall instead. He hears the chatter of the soldiers before he even smells the food. The place is crammed to the brim tonight, with bodies squeezed onto every bench. A familiar face jumps out at him every so often from the throng. There's Leopard, who Wolf shared a tent with for five weeks in Afghanistan, chatting with the cook. Jaguar from L Unit has a bunch of new recruits hanging off his every word. And that medic Scarab is eating with his head down in the corner.

At the table nearest to him, a group of men are collapsing with laughter, clapping one of their teammates on the back. Suddenly, Wolf doesn't want to be there.

Fairly sure that no-one has seen him, he slips from the hall and retreats to his cabin. With the door decidedly locked, he flicks through the meagre file that the Sergeant provided for him. There are exactly three pages about Alex Rider that the SAS has been deemed worthy of seeing, and a good third of the lines are blacked out with infuriating strips of tape. What's in there is virtually useless anyway, wildly disjointed and surely exaggerated. By the time he's on page two, Wolf is doubtful that he can trust any of it.

 _Damien Cray. Yassen Gregorovich. Unanticipated success but extensive collateral damage. July/August unauthorised: Venice. Debrief recording deleted._

Names and dates and places. They don't match up into one coherent story - not one that Wolf's willing to believe. It's the draft of a spy thriller that got rejected by every publisher, probably with "unrealistic" scrawled in the corner. Nothing that tells him who Cub is. He throws the thing down on his bunk and runs a hand through his hair.

Rider mentioned Scorpia. But that's literally all Wolf has to go on - that, and a handful of memories of a kid who doesn't seem to exist anymore.

There's no point trying to make any more sense of it tonight. But even with the events of the day weighing heavy on his bones, it's hard to find sleep in his old bed. Memories play out across the ceiling, flickering between the shadows, and there are crosshairs behind his eyes when he closes them.

.

.

The second time Wolf enters the holding cell, Rider is conscious. Surprisingly so – the camp is as quiet as it ever can be at this hour of the morning, free of the sounds of gunfire and engines. Wolf raises his eyebrows at the shadows under Rider's eyes when he sees him awake.

"Sleep while they're still letting you, kid," Wolf advises him, earning himself a weak scowl but no snappish retort this time.

Wolf settles down in the same seat as yesterday.

"So. Remembered those names yet?"

Rider's stare is professionally blank, but he can't quite conceal the irritation that must be itching under his skin, making his jaw tighter than it was yesterday.

"That's a shame. When as the last time you ate anything?"

Ah, a flicker. Wolf's strangely glad to know that even teenage contract killers get hungry.

"You're not going to let me starve," says Rider, but there's a thread of doubt in his voice nonetheless. Of course MI6 won't, but they'll use anything and everything they can to squeeze information out of him, and it sounds like he knows it.

"Come on, Cub. The food might be shit but it's better than nothing, right? We can do an exchange. Tell me who put out the hit, and I'll bring you some breakfast."

Rider's lips part tellingly. If that isn't a hint of temptation, Wolf doesn't know what is. But it's fleeting.

"Sorry. I don't give in that easily."

Frustration bubbles up inside of Wolf again. It's a feeling he's probably going to have to adjust to, he thinks with an inward sigh. Luckily, he has more than one route that he can take with this. Cub is trying to prove he isn't a rookie; fine, but Wolf isn't either.

He starts with more general questions this time. Unimportant ones that won't give him anything of value, that Cub hopefully won't have any reservations to answering. The hum of the lights fades into the background, a low buzz in Wolf's ears against the slightly rough tone of Rider's voice. He talks a lot more than Wolf expected, his answers short and more than often sarcastic.

The meeting the government worker was attending was private. How did Rider know where he was going to be? The people who hire him don't take chances; everything is coordinated. So they had contacts in the government? Of course they did, that's how they knew who to kill. Did he meet the contractor in person? Yes. Shockingly, a lot of people don't believe his reputation until they see it in the flesh. Rider couldn't guess why.

How did he slip a gun past security? Like every hitman does.

"Is that what you think you are?" Wolf asks curiously.

Rider shrugs. "What else would I be?"

"I don't know. What were you before?"

A strange expression crosses Rider's face. Regret surges up in Wolf, before he remembers that he's not supposed to feel anything in the region of guilt concerning what he does to Rider. If anything, he's being soft on him. Any other interrogator would have brought out the sharp objects by now…

And yet, seeing the conflict behind Rider's eyes that he's not quite talented enough to hide, Wolf almost wishes it was possible to give him space. Except this whole situation is designed for exposure: Rider's tied down with the wires; illuminated from every angle with the lights. Every thought and emotion belongs to Wolf, with nowhere for him to hide them but his mind. And to do that, he needs to stay one step ahead of Wolf at every turn.

It's exhausting just looking at him.

"I was whatever anybody needed me to be," Rider says eventually. When Wolf scoffs, he turns defensive. "What?"

"Okay, kid. If you were thirty, I might take that for an answer."

Something dark crosses Rider's face. "You think your holy government is above using children, Wolf? Think it's a completely new concept to them?"

" _Using_? I've read your file, kid. You agreed to all your missions."

Rider stares at him like he's a madman.

Apparently he's hit a nerve, because Rider refuses to speak another word. Wolf realises that he's not going to cooperate after ten minutes of solid silence, but he soldiers on, throwing questions at him until his voice is hoarse. By midday, he's tried every angle he can think of. Personal life, childhood, family, friends.

Eventually he gives up, leaning back in his chair and scrubbing a hand over his face.

"There's only so long you're gonna be able to keep this up, you know. MI6 will send in one of their lackeys. They won't go soft on you like I am."

"MI6 can go fuck themselves," says Rider, breaking his silence with true venom in his voice. "You can tell them that. And tell them I'll kill any operative they try and send to torture me."


	4. III

(Thank you to the people who reviewed! I really appreciate it)

.

 **III**

.

Enough time in the same room will turn anywhere into a prison, Wolf has come to realise. He leaves Rider for an hour at noon, heading to the Sergeant's office to see if he's any more willing to relinquish information than Rider is.

"There's just not much I can tell you," the man says more times than Wolf can count. "The first time he was here, Six just told us he was an experiment, and nobody was allowed to ask any questions."

Hmm. _Experimenting_ does sound suspiciously close to _using_.

"What, experimenting with younger agents?"

"I don't know, Wolf. Honestly, I thought they might have been lying about his age. That they'd found someone who was exceptionally young-looking and put him here to see if he'd pass as a teenager. The only thing I know is that they never sent another one his age."

Wolf hadn't even considered that. Why _had_ Rider been chosen, out of all the teenagers in the world? He remembered how the kid had fared in training. How had they managed to find one that could actually survive a mission? Employing a teenage agent in itself sounded like a very quick way of getting into a lawsuit. The last thing he'd expect would be for the kid to not only survive, but swap in his spy badge to be an assassin.

He tries bribery again, when he returns to Cub's cell. The kid must be hungry by now, but he doesn't even look at the food that Wolf tries to sway him with.

One useful piece of information that came out of his conversation with the Sergeant: MI6 are expecting answers by tomorrow. And there's a feeling deep in his gut telling him that the good cop routine isn't going to work in time.

"Do you think this is gonna get easier?" Wolf demands, a thread of frustration creeping into his voice.

"I wish you'd hurry the fuck up and cut to the chase," Cub snaps suddenly. "If you're gonna torture me then just _do it_ already."

"You don't mean that."

"The sooner we get this over with, the sooner MI6 can make me disappear."

It takes Wolf a second to process what he means.

"You don't want that to happen, Cub."

 _Don't I?_ says the look on the kid's face.

"You're seventeen," Wolf protests. God knows Wolf was a verifiable nightmare at that age, but not like this. This goes well beyond regular teen angst. He wasn't even able to comprehend death at seventeen, let along welcome it. Rider gives him a scathing look, but Wolf shakes his head. "Alright, I get it. You're mature. But you're still young, Cub. You don't know what you're doing. Trust me, you don't want to throw your life away like this."

"Yeah, 'cause I tied myself to this chair, didn't I?"

"You killed enough people to put yourself there."

This time, Cub looks away.

Something in Wolf sits up and pays attention.

"Shall we talk about them, Cub? Shall we talk about the people you murdered?"

Every second that Cub doesn't deny it, Wolf feels strangely lighter. Picturing the kid pulling a trigger on dozens of faceless strangers shouldn't be any kind of comfort, but it's taking the edge off his guilt about doing this, so Wolf ploughs on.

"Do you remember the first?"

Something flickers in Cub's face, no matter how hard he's trying to suppress it. Wolf's found his Achilles' heel.

"Was it a man? I'm guessing it was a man. Someone not too important, for your first hit. Personal feud? Business partner?"

Maybe he said something funny, because the ghost of a smile flits across Cub's face. Anger twists in Wolf's gut.

"Bringing back happy memories, am I?"

Any traces of amusement dissolve.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Cub says coldly. "If you want to know about my mission history, you should start with your employers."

Wolf raises an eyebrow. "That's a pretty big claim, Cub."

"Well, MI6 have some pretty big skeletons in their closet."

"I don't work for MI6."

"Then why the fuck are you here?"

Wolf opens his mouth, then closes it. The kid has a point…

Doesn't he? Does he?

As confusion begins to creep in, Wolf stops himself. Jesus – he's supposed to the one doing the interrogating here. _This is why I don't do assassins_ , he thinks. Is rising doing this on purpose? Is he messing with Wolf's head to distract him from the questions he needs answering?

"Why I'm here is none of your business," he snaps. "I'm not the guest of honour here, Cub. You are."

Rider doesn't say anything. But Wolf is done taking silence for an answer. He pictures Rider behind the barrel of a gun, pulling the trigger on some unsuspecting mark, his face remorseless like it is now. He pictures the body bag they zipped up yesterday. The man had two children.

Anger boils deep in Wolf's gut. Forget tiredness; he'll do this all fucking night if he has to.

He moves closer, giving Rider nowhere else to look, and throws the questions at Rider over and over again, with enough force that surely they must feel like punches by now. _Who put out the hit. Who. Who. Who. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me._

He can see the effect it's having on Rider. His face is pallid, his eyes bloodshot. There's a fine sheet of sweat covering his skin, and his breathing is getting shallower and shallower.

"Why do they even want to know?" he snaps eventually. "They can't bring the guy back to life."

Wolf doesn't even think before he backhands Rider across the face, hard. The blow rings throughout the cell.

Something twists with satisfaction inside Wolf. It takes a second before the implications of that hit him.

Wolf swallows down the lump in his throat. He waits for Rider to snap out some sarcastic retort, to tell him how he hits like a girl. To ask if that's the best he's got. Hell, he expects Rider to spit in his face. Didn't he threaten to kill anyone who might try to torture him, only hours ago?

But Rider's eyes are unnervingly blank.

Suddenly the room is too small. Wolf needs to get out of here. He expects to hear Rider's voice over his shoulder, mocking him for running when he's just getting started, but it never comes. Wolf doesn't stop to talk to the guard; he doesn't even look at him. He walks straight out into the cold night air, relishing the way the sharpness pierce his lungs, trying to ignore the way the wind whispers all around him, _coward coward coward_.

.

.

Wolf doesn't go back to the cell the next morning. Instead, he heads to the shooting range. It might be hard for others to believe, but it clears his head, the steady yet not quite mindless repetition of sending round after round into targets.

He doesn't expect anyone there to talk to him; it's not exactly a hub of conversation. But yet again, Wolf finds that his expectations aren't matching up with reality.

"Wolf, isn't it?"

The trainee can't be more than twenty-five. His accent is vaguely Liverpudlian, and instantly reminds Wolf of Fox, sending a pang through him.

"Does somebody want me?"

The trainee shakes his head. He looks… nervous? Uncertain? Wolf isn't sure how to feel about it. He hasn't spent much time with soldiers of lower rank since he finished his own training; he isn't used to being anybody's higher-up.

"No, nothing like that. I just wanted to ask you, man to man, you know, since it doesn't look like anyone's going to be telling us… Is it true? They've got a contract killer in Cabin 9?"

Wolf raises his eyebrows. He knows exactly what he _should_ tell him: that his first lesson in the SAS, if he even gets past selection, will be to keep his mouth shut and keep his nose out of things that aren't his business. Then the recruit will scamper off to the others (who are very unsubtly waiting on the far side of the range) and Wolf will smirk at the look on his face for the rest of the day.

But when Wolf opens his mouth, that isn't what he finds himself saying.

"It better be true, or I've been questioning the wrong bastard for the past two days."

Surprise colours the trainee's face.

"Seriously?"

"Come on, kid. I don't want to make you sign the Official Secrets Act…"

"No," says the recruit hastily. "No, of course not. Sorry. I'll – thanks. Yeah. I'll leave you to it."

Wolf watches him go, grinning to himself. He shouldn't have done that. Still, what harm can it do? Everyone and their mother seems knows about Rider already.

Spending so much time around Rider is doing strange things to him.

He gets pulled aside again when he leaves the shooting range. Gunpowder residue stains Wolf's fingertips and his ears are ringing, but his head feels clearer than it has in days. This time, it's the Sergeant who wants to speak to him. Wolf doesn't miss the envelope in his hand.

"Corporal," he addresses him shortly. "I put in a request for more information about Rider. This is what they've given us. Don't get your hopes up."

Wolf hadn't hoped for anything. He thanks the Sergeant and takes it quickly, before the man can change his mind. His expression is sour, like he's swallowed something bad. Asking MI6 for favours can't be something he likes to make a habit of.

Wolf doesn't bother returning to his barracks. He leans against the wall of Rider's cabin, in the shade, away from prying eyes, and tears open the envelope.

The Sergeant was right: there isn't much. Wolf scans the entire document twice and disappointment is setting in when his eyes catch a line near the end, and widen. He reads it again, just to be sure that he's understood it correctly.

Fucking hell. Rider has some explaining to do.

.

.


	5. IV

I'm very sorry this took so long to update. And I'm super super grateful to anyone who reviewed, faved and followed. It seriously means a lot that anyone is getting enjoyment out of something I'm writing. Only one chapter and an epilogue to go now.

(Warning for references to abuse)

 **IV**

.

.

Rider is awake again when Wolf enters the cell. He looks like he hasn't slept in days now, but Wolf doesn't make any comment on it this time. If he wants to torture himself, fine. Wolf isn't here to babysit him.

"Morning, Cub."

Was that a flinch? Wolf can't quite tell.

"Feeling talkative today?"

Rider answers with his usual silence. _Fuck it_ , Wolf thinks. He only has hours left before Six arrives to take over the assignment. Rider has made it clear that he isn't going to talk about the assassination, not to Wolf, but he might still be willing to sate Wolf's curiosity about other things.

"I sure hope so, because I've got some _very_ interesting questions for you." Rider winces at the sound of the chair scraping across the floor. _Good_ , Wolf thinks nastily. He's allowed him far too many concessions already. Wolf leans across to Rider, elbows on his knees, looking him straight in the eye. "Why did you join Scorpia, Cub?"

Rider's eyes widen. Oh. _That_ wasn't what he was expecting.

"See, I've been reading your file. Trying to figure out how the kid I met in France could end up murdering people for a living. I thought, something must have happened to him, something that gave him no other choice." Anger is brimming up in Wolf again, and he isn't bothered about trying to contain it. There's something pained in Rider's face, something verging on fear, but Wolf doesn't care. "But no. You sought out Scorpia and joined them of your own free will. They taught you how to kill, and you were so good at it that you decided to make a fucking career out of it."

"You don't understand," Rider tries to say. His voice is even rougher than yesterday, low and hoarse.

"Enlighten me then, Cub."

Rider looks away. "I can't. I'm sorry."

Wolf actually laughs. "You're _sorry_? How about you tell that to the wife of the man you murdered? How about you tell that to his kids?"

"She'll be glad that he's gone."

That throws Wolf off guard.

"What?"

"He hit her. He'd started hitting his eldest daughter too. His wife was trying to leave him, but she didn't have the money. Now she has his entire bank account."

Wolf leans back, trying to process this. He hadn't considered that Cub knew anything about his mark. It could be a lie, of course, but something in his gut tells him it's not.

"So that's why you killed him? Because he was a wife-beater?"

"No, I killed him because I was paid to. But I don't regret it. And I doubt his wife hates me very much."

Wolf is beginning to catch on. "So is this what you do with all your hits? Cherry pick the ones you think deserve it most, like some kind of – of vigilante?"

Rider doesn't reply.

"You know what I think, Cub? I think you're full of shit. You might you have your own little moral code, but Scorpia kills anyone they can get their hands on, and you know it."

"I don't work for Scorpia."

"Come on, Cub. No more games. I know you joined them. They're you're employers, right? They give you your assignments. Or are you seriously saying they let you hand in your resignation form?"

Wolf can feel that he's getting closer to the truth, but Rider is cutting him off before he can get there. He doesn't respond to Wolf's questions about Venice.

Eventually he speaks again, cutting across Wolf's voice.

"When are MI6 coming?"

Wolf hesitates at first, but what's the point in lying anymore? "Tonight, if I don't give them answers. You still have time, Cub."

Rider chews his lip. He looks like he's actually considering it.

But then he lets out a long breath, and a look of resignation draws over his face.

"I can't."

"Why _not_?" Wolf just doesn't understand it. Cub knows what MI6 will do to him, whether he talks or not. He said it himself: they're going to make him "disappear". What does he have left to lose? What is he still protecting?

"Why do you care?" Rider shoots at him.

And honestly, what can Wolf say to that? He doesn't know. He _shouldn't_ care.

The assignment is done. He's failed. There's nothing left to say. Wolf wants to offer Rider parting advice, but there's no point. The last look he gets at Cub, he's staring at the ceiling again. It strikes Wolf how weary he looks, far, far older than seventeen, yet at the same time, far too young to be caught up in this mess. Wolf's chest hurts. His job isn't just to take out the bad guys; the whole reason he joined the army was to help people. He'd wanted so badly for Cub to fall into the second category, but it looks like he's decided to be in the first.

The door shuts behind him with a final, heavy clang, but the image of Cub burns behind his eyes. Wolf knows it's not one that he's going to easily forget.

.

.

The Sergeant shakes his head.

"I'm sorry, sir," says Wolf. He's already decided that this will be the first and last time he'll say it. He did his best, and he won't apologise for knowing when to give up on a lost cause. He stands with his back straight, refusing to look diminished in any way.

"Nothing? You couldn't get him to tell you _anything_?"

"He's well trained, sir. I don't think using force would have accomplished anything."

The Sergeant sighs, and glances at his watch. "Never mind. Six will be here soon anyway."

"Do you want me to be here, sir?"

"Is there any point? No, I'll see them myself."

"Right… Permission to be dismissed, then?"

"Not so fast," the Sergeant stops him. "The recruits are out on a training exercise tonight. Down at the lake. Since I'll be entertaining the spies, I'm assigning you to supervise them."

"Yes, sir."

There's a strange knot in Wolf's throat. He assumed that he would be here when MI6 came for Cub. Maybe this is for the best. He doesn't really want to see them taking the kid away. By the time he returns to camp, Cub will be gone and this whole thing will be over, like a bad dream.

Some of the tension of the last few days eases out of Wolf's chest. As he heads to the mess hall, he's already mulling over the best way to put the recruits through their paces. For the first time in days, Rider is far from his mind.

.

.

The night is cold, bitingly cold, but Wolf is grinning. He stands at the side of the lake, rubbing his hands together and shouting commands at the recruits racing each other across the lake.

"Come on, lads! My dead grandma could move faster than that!"

He laughs at the miserable scowls that are sent his way, not feeling the slightest bit sorry for them. He did his time in training; now he's passing on the baton.

"I saw you cut that corner, Lynx! Get out and run a lap."

Wolf hears a groan and a mumble that might be "fuck you" before said recruit is splashing out of the water and sprinting away. His gaze wanders out to the sky behind them, beaming with stars. The cold is worth it for a view like that.

His mind starts wandering too, as he stands here. Where will he be sent next? The past three years have been a whirlwind of mission upon mission. His chest twinges at the thought of counting Cub among those, of classifying him as a _mission_. But what else would he be? Wolf takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. His part is over now. He's never been the type to cling to _what if_ s and _what could have been_ s.

When he hears the footsteps behind him, he assumes that it's Lynx, finishing his lap.

The familiar voice surprises him.

"Bloody hell, it's cold out here."

Wolf turns, and starts in surprise.

"Snake?"

It _is_ Snake. He's smirking at Wolf, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Wolf doesn't hesitate in pulling him into an embrace.

"The Sergeant said you were down here," he says when they let go. "Giving the new recruits hell, are you?"

"Nothing less," Wolf promises, and gets a proper look at his old teammate. Snake looks different, somehow. Older, maybe? The light out here is piss poor, but Wolf makes out a scar winding across his forehead and into his hairline. Still, he looks pleased to see Wolf. "What the hell are you doing here? Don't tell me they sent you back for more training."

"Oh yeah, absolutely. I'll jump in the lake and do some laps, shall I?" He shoves Wolf's shoulder. "Fuck off. Nah, I'm here protecting some Special Ops arseholes. Apparently they're keeping someone dangerous on the camp, some kind of—"

"Assassin," Wolf finishes.

"Yeah, that's right." Snake gives Wolf a look. "What do you know about it?"

Wolf hesitates.

And then before he can stop himself, the words are spilling out. Perhaps it's because it's Snake, someone he spent so much time with at such close quarters, one of the names he would probably say first if asked who he trusts with his life.

"It's Cub, Snake. The assassin they're here for. It's Cub."

Snake's face falls. " _What?_ "

"We brought him in a few days ago. A squad was called in after he shot someone in the city centre. They brought him here and they've had me questioning him since then and… fuck, Snake. He wouldn't talk. Wouldn't tell me a damn thing. So Six have come to cart him away."

 _And I don't know what to do_ , Wolf thinks, but manages to bite his tongue before he blurts that out as well.

Shocked silence falls over them. Wolf feels odd, strangely light-headed from revealing so much. He barely registers when Snake grabs him and pulls him aside, far out of earshot of the lake.

"Wolf," says Snake, his voice low and urgent. "Are you saying Cub is an assassin? Our Cub?"

Is he _their Cub_?

Shit – he is, isn't he?

"Yeah," Wolf replies. "He murdered a man in cold blood, Snake, only days ago. He's been doing it for years."

But suddenly, the words are ringing false even to Wolf's ears. _How many kills did they say he's done_ , whispers a voice in his ear. _Eight countries, and twice as many kills? In under two years?_

"But… he can't be. Wolf, he literally _can't_ be." Fear is bubbling up in Wolf's gut now. "I was on a mission with him, only six months ago. He was working for MI6."

Wolf's heart lurches. "What?" is all he can say, and now it's Snake who's talking in earnest.

"It was a hostage situation in Moscow. Cub was the Special Ops liaison they sent to clean up the mess their first one made. I couldn't believe it when he first turned up, but he – well, he saved us. He drew up a plan to get into the building that none of us had thought of."

Wolf's head is reeling.

"I didn't think he looked good back then," says Snake, not quite meeting Wolf's eyes. There's shame in his tone. "I knew something was wrong with him. He risked his neck when he didn't need to. Used himself as bait. I saw him in the hospital afterwards, and his eyes were just dead, Wolf."

"Why didn't you—"

"Because we needed him, didn't we? God, I wish I'd done something…"

Wolf's mind is racing, running over the events of the last few days.

"He killed someone," says Wolf. "That can't have been faked. I saw them zip up the body bag, Snake. I shot him down myself to bring him in."

Snake shakes his head. "Maybe he's gone off the rails then. But I'm telling you, Wolf, the kid was messed up. Whatever's going on with him, he's not in his right mind."

And if MI6 had lied about Rider's history, what else could they have lied about?

"We need to go," said Wolf. "We need to get to the Sergeant before they take Cub. They won't leave without you, will they?"

"Leave? What do you mean?"

"To take Cub back to their headquarters."

"Wolf, they're not here to take him anywhere."

The blood in Wolf's veins turns to ice.

"Special Ops had him brought _here_ for a reason. They're here to torture him."

Wolf doesn't know how he manages to keep it together.

"Stay here, watch the recruits," he thinks he says to Snake; he's honestly not sure. He can't think until he's sprinting back towards the camp, his feet pounding the dirt as fast as he can, heart slamming against his ribcage hard enough to crack his bones.


	6. V

A wild update appeared! I was going to skip the actual torture scene but you know what, I committed to writing an interrogation fic so I might as well do it properly. It's also been extended by a chapter or two, I think.

(Warning for torture, language as usual, Alex putting the sass in assassin…) (I really just wanted to make that joke okay I'm sorry I'll go now)

.

 **V**

.

He sees the figures surrounding the cabin as he starts to get close.

Wolf's heart is still racing in his ears. Images keep rising to the forefront of his mind, awful, awful images that he can't banish. He might not talk about this, he might not even think about this, but he was in a warzone for almost a year. He saw some things that he'll never be able to forget, things it took months of leave to be able to function with, and now he's seeing them all again, only with Cub's face on them…

Just as Wolf is about to burst out into the clearing, a hand grabs his shoulder. Wolf reacts as any SAS soldier would. He's a second away from taking his attacker's head off his shoulders when the familiar voice stops him in his tracks.

"Wolf, stop!"

Panting with exertion, Wolf lets his fists fall to his sides.

"Snake, what the—"

But Snake is pulling him aside none too gently, and hissing in his face. "Shut _up_."

The venom in his friend's tone shocks Wolf into compliance. He lets Snake drag him away from the cabin, until they're well out of the line of sight, then shakes his hand off with a scowl.

"I told you to stay with the recruits," he starts, but Snake interrupts.

"Jesus, you're an idiot sometimes. What were you thinking, that you could just charge in there and beat them all into submission?"

Wolf opens his mouth, then closes it, knowing exactly how stupid he looks. In truth, he hadn't actually thought ahead that far. He'd been too busy thinking about getting Cub away from those lying, manipulating—

"We need a plan first. Okay?"

Wolf shakes himself. He should know this. This is why he functions better in a team.

"Okay," he agrees.

Now Snake is the one hesitating. "Wolf, how likely do you think it is that Cub is actually… innocent, in all this?"

Wolf chews his lip. He flashes back to the first time he entered Cub's cell, the way he had behaved… the deep feeling in his gut, that something had gone awfully _wrong_ with the kid.

"I don't know," he says honestly. "But we have to assume innocent until proven guilty, right? And since MI6 have been lying through their teeth, we don't actually have anywhere to start for proof…"

Snake's eyes land on something behind him, and Wolf can see the moment that an idea enters his eyes.

"I think I know where to start."

Eavesdropping, Wolf has found, tends to be a lot easier when the ground isn't littered with debris and leaves. Still, they manage to get to an acceptable distance without alerting any of the figures outside of the cabin.

One of the figures outside the cell is the same guard as always. He's speaking to the Sergeant and someone Wolf doesn't recognise; one of the agents probably, a man in a dark suit. Snake and Wolf linger just out of sight, but just close enough to hear the exchange.

"No sir," the guard is saying. "No-one's been in here but me and the soldier you assigned."

The agent turns to the Sergeant, mutters something too quiet to be heard. Wolf hears the Sergeant's reply though, sharp enough to carry on the wind.

"With all due respect, _Agent Ryan_ , Wolf isn't trained in interrogation. If you wanted results that quickly, you should have come yourself." The Sergeant glances at the door. "I want to make it clear that I don't like this, Agent. This is my facility…"

The agent cuts him off with low words, and after a moment, the Sergeant folds his arms grudgingly.

"Fine. But I want regular updates sent to my office, or I'm calling you in for malpractice."

Wolf exchanges a glance with Snake, wondering if he's thinking the same thing. As the meeting breaks up, the Sergeant leaves, heading back into the camp, while the agent goes into the cabin. The door is open and for a flash of a second, Wolf catches the outlines of the silhouettes inside. Then the door slams shut, and they're cut off once again.

Wolf runs a hand through his hair.

"One of us needs to be in there," says Snake in a grim voice.

"You want to let them torture him?"

"Of course I don't _want_ to." Snake gives him a reproachful look, and Wolf feels a bit bad. Snake looks just as torn about this as he feels; the difference is that he's being objective about it. "But we need to see how they interact with Cub, to know what's really going on, don't we? They think we're on their side for now. We can use that."

He has a point. Wolf closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Snake might be saying 'we', but he really means Wolf, and they both know it.

Wolf is the only one of them that has an excuse to be in that room.

He would very much like to be a thousand miles away right now, but he steels himself, and draws himself together. Snake has done the thinking; it's time for him to do his part, and be the leader.

.

.

The guard on the door looks up when he approaches.

"You got permission?"

Wolf considers it an act of God that he actually manages to grin at the man.

"Come on, mate. How many times have you offered me a smoke?"

For a second he thinks it isn't going to work, but then the guard's mouth cracks into a smile. "Yeah, all right. Go on in."

Wolf's heart catches in his throat as he crosses through the door. It slams resolutely behind him, and then he's inside, and officially committed to this.

Snake has agreed to go back to the lake, and meet him afterwards. Wolf wasn't sure that he'd get the clearance to do this, if he'd gone to the Sergeant, so he went straight in without asking for clearance. Simple.

Three agents have been assigned to interrogate Cub, two men and a woman. Two of them are deep in discussion next to where Cub is tied up (still in one piece, Wolf sees) while the third, the one Wolf recognises from outside, looks around when Wolf comes in. His eyes narrow. He's younger than Wolf expected, with a clean-cut kind of look about him and an expression like there's an unpleasant smell under his nose. He has the kind of trained blankness behind his eyes that all three of them have, the kind that Wolf has come to recognise in Special Ops agents; Cub has a flavour of it himself.

"What now?"

"The Sergeant sent me to keep an eye on things," Wolf lies smoothly. Given the little show outside, it seems credible. "I did the, uh, the first interrogation on Rider. Over the last few days. If he changes his story in any way, I'll be able to let you know."

It works. A disgruntled expression crosses Agent Ryan's face, but he nods. "Fine. But don't interrupt."

The other agents only give him a brief glance, taking in his combats and his military stance and clearly learning all they need to know, before turning away dismissively. But when Cub notices him, his eyes widen slightly and follow Wolf as he makes his way to the back corner of the room. The whole scene is already giving Wolf a queasy feeling. The agents have their heads together, discussing how they're going to go about this in casual tones, while Cub…

Wolf might even say that Cub looks scared. His hands are clenched into fists where they're tied behind his back, and his lips are pressed together tightly.

Wolf leans against the wall, swallowing hard. _I'm on your side_ , he wants to tell Cub somehow, but he's never been good at the whole nonverbal communication thing. He could try to sign something, he supposes, but there's a risk that anything Cub might interpret, the agents would as well.

"What's the point in starting light?" one of the agents is saying. "They already tried that, and he didn't give. We might as well go straight in at the deep end."

The second agent – the woman – nods. "I agree." She glances past him, at Cub. "You hear that, Rider? You ready to be cooperative?"

Rider looks up at her with sullen contempt. There's a familiarity between them, Wolf realises. They know him – either as a former MI6 agent or as an assassin. It's strange to think that Cub has a reputation, outside of how Wolf knows him.

"Let's get this over with," says the male agent, the one who Wolf is getting the impression of as the natural leader among them. He strides up to Cub and looks down at him. "Here's how this is going to work, Rider. Nobody's going soft on you anymore. None of us are going fall for your victim act. You're going to answer every question you're given, or things are going to get more unpleasant than they need to."

Wolf struggles to hide the way his mind is spinning. They're certainly treating him like he's a hostile enemy, and not one of theirs. Perhaps he did work for MI6, but did something to piss them off?

"Fine with me," Cub replies, his voice even. "I've been waiting for you guys to show up for days."

The agent pauses. "And what does that mean exactly?"

Cub meets his eyes steadily. "I'll tell you everything you like. No… persuasions needed."

The agent's eyes narrow in suspicion. "Good. You can start with giving us the name of the person who put out your hit."

This is where the evasion begins, Wolf thinks, but Cub takes the whole room by surprise.

"The name he gave me was Fallows," he says clearly. "He's something to do with casinos, I think."

 _What?_

The agents look just as taken aback.

"Fallows," the interrogator repeats.

"That's right."

"And how did you meet this 'Fallows'?"

"One of my contacts told me what he wanted, and then told him about me, when I agreed to do it. I met up with him in one of his bars in London."

"Contacts in Scorpia?"

Wolf thinks he sees something cross Cub's face, but he holds his chin just as high and doesn't deny it. "Those would be the ones."

"And what did he look like?"

Cub shrugs. "In his forties, white, average looking. He had two pretty intimidating bodyguards that didn't want me getting too close. I can give you the details of the place and you can go through the security footage if you like—"

"Okay, I get the picture."

The female agent pipes up. "Chad Granger goes by Fallows sometimes. He owns a few casinos, and he matches the description." She pulls out a phone, scrolls for a moment, then shows it to the interrogator. "Here. Blunt's had him on amber alert for almost a year." Another scroll, and then a poignant pause. "Two of the reports that mentioned him came from Evans."

Evans… the man that Cub killed.

A lump is rising in Wolf's throat. So Cub is an assassin after all, at least in this instance.

"You don't seem awfully concerned with protecting the identity of your employer," the leading agent comments.

Cub shrugs. "I didn't particularly like him. And he had someone murdered, he broke the law. You can do what you want with him. That's not my business."

"Let me guess: he already paid you?" The agent shakes his head, disgusting curling on his face. "You're supposed to be competent, Rider. Contract killers don't survive for very long by selling out the people that give them jobs."

"Well, it looks like my career is swinging to a close anyway, doesn't it?" Such bitterness laces Cub's voice that it's virtually acidic.

Wolf tries to put these pieces together in his head. From the way Cub is talking, it sounds like he's burning his bridges before his last fall, which makes a certain amount of sense. But it still leaves one question unanswered, and the agent is wondering it as well as Wolf.

"So why exactly were you so opposed to telling your SAS interrogator any of this?"

Now, something dark passes through Cub's eyes.

"This is between me and Blunt," he says firmly. "It always has been. I don't want anyone outside MI6 dragged into this." If his eyes flicker over to Wolf for a moment, it's too fast for anyone to notice. "There's been enough collateral damage already."

As the implication of Cub's words seep into Wolf's mind, unease begins to set in. Wolf isn't sure how to feel about that, or what it's supposed to mean… Is Cub implying that _Wolf_ was the one he was trying to protect somehow, when he refused to talk?

A frown crosses the agent's face, but he shakes it off, and then laughs. "So noble of you, Rider. Are you seriously trying to tell us that you resisted interrogation because you're so _selfless_?"

"No," Rider snaps. "I'm trying to send Blunt a message that he can do his own goddamn dirty work for once, instead of dragging people I knew years ago into this mess."

The agent gives Wolf an amused look. "You here that, soldier? Little shit was stopping you from doing your job because he was _looking out for you_. I know you're young and new to interrogation, Rider, but take it from an older agent: in future, you'll need a more convincing story than that."

"How about you take it from a better agent: this isn't my first interrogation, you fucking Neanderthal, and the next time you torture someone you should probably read their whole file first."

The agent punches Cub square in the jaw. His head snaps sideways.

"Not bad," Cub comments, his voice thick, after a moment of silence. "Could do with more of a swing, though. And you shouldn't tuck your thumb underneath like—"

The second blow cuts him off mid-sentence. Wolf winces. Being hit as such close quarters isn't fun, he knows from experience. He isn't surprised when Cub chooses to keep quiet, this time.

"First interrogation or not, Rider, you still have a thing or two to learn about keeping your mouth shut."

"I thought you wanted me to talk." Cub tests out his jaw with a wince, and spits out blood. "I'm getting some real mixed messages here, you know."

Cub's voice is starting to sound pained, no matter how much bravado he's still putting on.

The agent turns away, turns to his colleague, and says something in her ear. Suddenly, Wolf is flooded with an awful feeling of foreboding. The other agent's eyes slide slowly onto Cub, scrutinising him for a long moment, before she nods.

Both Wolf and Cub tense at what she pulls out of her jacket and places in the interrogator's hand.

"I'm telling you what you want," Cub protests, an edge of fear creeping into his voice.

The agent hums, turning the knife over in his fingers, and flicking open the blade. It's short, but it looks awfully sharp.

"Let's see if you say the same thing when you're a little less comfortable."

"You don't _need_ to—"

"You don't get to decide what we _need to do_ , Rider. You lost your say in MI6's actions when you started killing people for a living. Besides… Blunt gave us orders not to listen to anything you say before you've suffered a bit."

Wolf's gut is starting to churn. They can't be serious, can they?

The agent saunters forward. Cub's eyes are glued to the knife, his face tight with apprehension.

"You know, I remember working with you in… where was it?"

The interrogator turns back to his colleague.

"Jakarta," she provides, cocking her head at Cub thoughtfully. "The Sting-Ray mission."

"Jakarta, that was it. You practically ran into gunfire to save those kids." The interrogator shakes his head, his expression grim. "If you could turn traitor after that, you're capable of anything, in my book."

Wolf's gut is churning. _He's cooperating_ , he wants to yell at them, _you don't need to torture him…_

But if he says anything now, he'll only draw attention to himself, mark himself as a sympathiser. He forces himself to swallow down his protests, even as his brain screams at him to act. He can only watch, sickened, as the interrogator cuts Cub's shirt from his skin with a few deft hacks. And he feels a thousand times worse when he sees the extent of Cub's injuries that have been invisible to him before now. Purple bruising discolours his chest in multiple places. Wolf would be surprised if he doesn't have at least one broken rib in there. Worse – blood has completely soaked the bandage dressing the bullet wound in his shoulder; there's not a speck of white left.

Agent Ryan whistles from across the room.

"Nice work, Corporal."

It takes a moment for Wolf to realise that they mean him. Suddenly, there are eyes on him that he didn't anticipate.

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "It was you who shot him down, wasn't it? I recognised your voice from the earpiece."

Wolf has never felt less proud of completing a mission. He feels like he's burning. He does his best to look anywhere but Cub, not wanting to see the way that Cub might be looking at him.

"Yeah," he mutters. "It was."

"Well, I think there's a lot to work with here," says the interrogator. "Don't you think, Rider?"

Wolf can practically see Cub's skin crawling, leaning as far away from the man as he can.

And then agent is cutting away the bandage on his bullet wound, and Wolf hears Cub's breath hitch in pain. The sight of the bullet wound makes Wolf wince. It doesn't look infected, but it's still quite literally a fresh wound, and it's got to be stinging like hell.

"The name of your employer."

Cub takes a shaky breath. "Fallows," he says steadily.

And then he's gasping as the tip of the knife digs into the wound.

"Sure about that, Rider?"

" _Yes_."

The knife twists. Cub jerks, face contorting in pain. He squeezes his eyes shut.

"Fucking _yes_."

"Okay," says the agent. "Let's talk about Scorpia, then."

"I'd be able to think a lot better without a knife in my— _fuck_."

The agent digs the knife in once again, making fresh blood bubble up.

"You know every time you make one of your little comments, you're only making this worse for yourself."

Cub glares at him with such raw hatred that it sends a shiver down Wolf's spine, despite everything. He flashes back to Cub saying that he'd kill any MI6 agent that laid a finger on him, and looking at him now, Wolf can believe it. For the interrogator's sake, Wolf hopes those zip ties are tough.

… But there's also another part of Wolf that wants these assholes to get everything that's coming to them, and it's growing more vocal as the agent asks question after question, his voice utterly neutral and unaffected. The other two agents observe impassively. Perhaps it's their training, but they show none of the horror that Wolf is feeling. Leaning against the opposite wall, Ryan is actually picking at his nails.

Wolf knows he has to stay for as long as he can bear to, witness as much of the exchange as he can bear, to get a full perspective. It only gets worse from there. They fall into a pattern of the leading agent throwing out a question, Cub answering under various levels of "persuasion", punctuated with Cub's increasingly frequent and more desperate pleas that _this isn't necessary..._

He holds up as well as Wolf probably would have, under the same circumstances. But eventually, Cub's snarky remarks have long since stopped, and the resolve that every agent under torture starts out with – not to scream, not to beg, not to show any signs of weakness – has given way. After a while, Wolf finds himself unable to look any longer, and when the smell of blood is permeating the air so much that Wolf can't stand to be in the room, he slips away, muttering something about reporting to the Sergeant. Cub's voice rings in his ears long after he's left the cabin.

Wolf's gut is churning so badly he has to reach out to steady himself against the cabin wall, fearing he might throw up, only to shudder when he realises what's still going on inside those walls, even if he can no longer hear it.

If his mind wasn't made up before, it is now. Assassin or not, they can't leave Cub to those people. It's sick. It's not humane.

He means to head straight for the lake, but before he can take a step in that direction, he hears his name being called.

Wolf turns to see a recruit, one he doesn't recognise, jogging across the yard.

"Wolf, isn't it? The Sergeant wants you in his office."

Wolf blinks, head swimming. Christ, he doesn't need this right now.

"You better go quickly," the recruit advises him. "He's pissed. Told me to make sure I bring you back with me."

Shit. He can't refuse to go to the Sergeant's quarters; if he flags that something's wrong with him, there will be people watching him all of a sudden, and then he'll never be able to help Cub.

There's nothing he can do but reluctantly head off with the recruit, with one final glance over his shoulder at the cabin.

 _Hold on, Cub_. _H_ _old on._

.

(you know the drill, review review review!)


	7. VI

Fun fact: I accidentally called my flatmate Wolf. His name is Will. And then I died of embarrassment, which is why I took so long to update.

(Same warnings as previous chapters apply)

.

.

The recruit had been right: the Sergeant _is_ pissed, and he makes his anger known. The moment Wolf sets foot in his office, his expression goes from angry to truly stormy, and the recruit scampers like a mouse as soon as he's dismissed.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't send you straight to high command," the Sergeant growls, after a moment of silence that feels physically painful.

Wolf opens his mouth, but the ability to form words seems to have temporarily escaped him. He's always hated answering to superiors when he's fucked up. It's a bad trait for a soldier to have, he knows, but he can't help it.

And it's never a good sign when he doesn't know _which of his actions_ have landed him in trouble.

Apparently, it's all of them.

"First you tell a new recruit classified information about a contract killer. Then you fail your assignment so badly that multiple people – including me – are starting to question whether you even tried. And then you lie to MI6, you lie using _my name_ , to get into a high security Special Ops interrogation where you have absolutely no authority to be." If the Sergeant could be any more tense, Wolf imagined he might actually shatter into a million pieces. "So tell me, Wolf, what the hell do you have to say for yourself?"

Wolf can't look the Sergeant in the eye. Anxiety is spiralling out of control inside of him. For the first time, he realises just how bad this reflects upon him. He's only been in the SAS a few years, and he's got himself tangled up in a web of MI6 corruption. If this gets out of hand, it could spell the end of him, in more ways than one…

But then the image of Cub, tied to that chair, screaming in pain, crosses his mind. Something steels in Wolf. He shoves his useless self-pity away. He has more than just himself to think about here.

… And yet, the Sergeant already knows that foul play is happening. The blame has to fall on someone. And if Wolf doesn't incriminate MI6, it will come down squarely on his head.

Maybe it's something about the room they're in, but it strikes Wolf with startlingly clarity, all of sudden, that he's standing in decidedly SAS territory. The walls are decorated with framed medals and certificates, the proud logo of the Special Air Services blazing on multiple surfaces. This is his ground, not MI6's – will his word be believed above theirs?

And somewhere in Wolf's gut, he knows that it doesn't matter. He will never get Cub out of here without the Sergeant's cooperation. There's only one option: he has to tell him the truth.

"Sir, MI6 have been lying to you."

Now _that_ gets the Sergeant's attention. Wolf wonders what he was expecting. A profound apology? A long-winded excuse?

"You better start explaining, Wolf."

Wolf realises that he's being given a chance, and jumps on it. Still, his heart is crashing painfully against his ribcage. He feels like he's standing on a tripwire here; one wrong move and he'll bring everything crashing down.

"When you first briefed me, sir, you gave me a rundown of what MI6 had told us about Cu— about Rider. One of the things was that he'd been killing for years. That he'd made a name for himself. Racked up a high kill count. But I spoke to Snake last night, sir, and he said that he worked with Cub on a Special Ops mission, only six months ago."

The Sergeant's eyes are full of scepticsm. Wolf can see his caution about where Wolf is heading with this.

"Snake could have been mistaken."

Wolf shakes his head. "He says he worked with him in close quarters. Besides, how many teenage agents can Six have, that someone else could get mistaken for Cub? And there's more. I know that I disobeyed orders by going into that cell when they were interrogating him... But sir, when I was in training, I was taught that the SAS isn't just about following orders. It's about trusting our own instincts and our judgements, in situations where lives might be at risk. Isn't it, sir?"

The Sergeant's eyebrows go up. "Careful, Wolf," he warns. "That's warzone talk. I don't like Rider's situation any more than you do, but MI6 isn't an enemy you want to make."

Wolf straightens his shoulders, looks the Sergeant in the eye. "With all due respect, sir, aren't there some battles worth fighting?" The Sergeant looks doubtful, but he lets Wolf speak. "Six's agents aren't playing by the rules with the interrogation. They didn't just question him. They tortured him even though he was giving them answers. Apparently they were given orders to ignore everything Cub said until they'd used force. And to be honest, sir… I think at least one of them got a kick out of it."

Something changes in the Sergeant's demeanour. "Are you saying they tortured a prisoner who was willingly surrendering information? Without duress?"

Wolf nods. He sees anger return to the Sergeant's eyes, but this time, it has a different source.

"A seventeen-year-old prisoner too, sir. Cub's still underage."

Wolf sees the same combination of shock and nausea run through the Sergeant that he had also felt, when he found out. The Sergeant leans back, looking firmly at his desk as he visibly tries to collect his thoughts. Of course, they'd both known that Cub had been young, but not _that_ young. And neither of them had really let themselves think about what the implications of his age could be. _Where are his parents? Hell, why isn't he in school? How the hell did he get mixed up in all of this?_

"Fuck," the Sergeant summarises. Wolf heartily agrees. "You should have come to me before… but I understand why you didn't."

Wolf lets out a shaky breath. He realises that his fingers are trembling with adrenaline. It's strange, how a conversation can make him more lightheaded than he might have been in a gunfight.

It's truly out of his hands now.

"What are you going to do about it, sir?" he has to ask, even though he's not sure he wants to know the answer. If the Sergeant doesn't side with Wolf, he's risked his only shot at getting Cub out of this…

The Sergeant looks thoughtful as he sinks into his seat and leans back, threading his fingers together. Then he picks up the phone on his desk.

"I'm going to have Alex Rider officially brought into SAS custody," he announces. "What you've told me should be enough to prove that MI6 can't be trusted with the boy. _You_ are going to fetch Snake and bring him here to back up what you've just told me."

 _Yes!_ Wolf could have kissed the man.

"Gladly, sir. But what about Cub? Those agents are still with him."

"I need you on the official side of things right now." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "Scarab and Jaguar are in the camp at the moment for refresher training. They're in the cabin next door. Fetch them. Tell them to go down to Rider's holding cell and see that the interrogation is paused, until further notice."

Scarab and Jaguar are members of L Unit, fully qualified SAS. Wolf remembers them starting their training just before K Unit passed selection. They'll be able to handle things.

Once he's passed on the message, he finds Snake. He doesn't have to go far. He almost collides with the man as he leaves the Sergeant's office. When he quickly fills him in on what's happened, shock is exchanged for anger which is exchanged for relief, as he hears that the Sergeant is on their side.

"Thank god for that." He blows out a long breath. "What now?"

"We wait," says Wolf. "And see if high command are going to back us up."

"They will," Snake says confidently. "Anyone can see that MI6 is out of line. It's just a matter of time."

Wolf nods in agreement. It's not for show, either. For the first time in too long, Wolf truly believes that things are going their way.

.

.

That line of thought holds until about half an hour later, until Wolf and Snake exchange glances from where they're waiting outside the Sergeant's office. The Sergeant's voice has risen dangerously as he speaks on the phone.

"What do you mean you can't— I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation, Officer— No, I won't bloody hold, I need to speak to— Hello? Hello? _Damn it_!"

His curse is following by the resounding crash of a phone slamming into its socket. A moment later, the door to the office opens, and a recruit beckons them inside. The Sergeant is pacing the floor of his office, coursing a hand through his hair.

"Sir?" Wolf tries apprehensively.

The Sergeant stops abruptly. "It's going to take longer than I anticipated to get custody of Rider."

"But sir, we need to act now."

"You think I don't know that, Wolf?" he snaps. A moment later, he sighs. "Sorry. It's been a long night."

He takes a seat at his desk and takes a moment to collect himself.

"Right," he says, sounding much more like the Sergeant of Brecon Beacons this time. "The problem is that the only evidence we have of MI6's misdoings at the moment is Wolf's word. And high command can't treat verbal accusations the same as they could, say, video evidence."

A thrill goes up Wolf's spine. He exchanges a meaningful look with Snake, but before either of them can get a word in, the Sergeant is speaking again.

"Someone's being dispatched from headquarters," he says tiredly. "But we don't have the authority to act with force until we can provide solid evidence of corruption." The Sergeant gestures to the recruit who brought them in, who's sitting at one of the office's computers, scrolling through a folder. "Lynx here is looking through the CCTV recordings of your sessions with Rider, Wolf." The Sergeant waves off his surprise. "Yes, yes, we put up cameras, if you weren't perceptive enough to notice them, that's your own fault. The thing is, those bloody _agents_ did notice them, and they deactivated them before starting their interrogation."

"So we can't help Cub," Snake translates.

"We can't help Cub," the Sergeant confirms. "Not yet. MI6 can still do whatever they like with him."

He runs a hand through his hair.

"Sir," Wolf finally says, "what if we _were_ able to provide solid evidence?"

The Sergeant pauses. "What are you saying, Wolf?"

Wolf feels every eye on him as his fingers fumble at the button on his lapel of his combats, and pull away a small, black orb. Not a button at all, but a compact, Special Ops-issue camera.

Wolf hadn't wanted to watch those agents torture Cub. It had been one of the most harrowing things he'd ever seen. But he'd gone through with it, on the notion that they needed to witness the exchange between Rider and MI6. And just before he'd gone into the room, Snake had stopped him and handed him the surveillance device that had been issued to him at the beginning of his assignment, to guard the MI6 agents against a dangerous assassin.

Video evidence.

For once, the Sergeant is utterly speechless.

"Will it be—"

"It'll be enough," the Sergeant confirms. "If it's everything you told me you saw, it'll be more than enough."

It's a breakthrough. Hope ignites within Wolf's chest.

The mood is quickly broken, however, by the recruit's voice from the corner.

"Sir," he says, in a serious enough voice that he instantly catches the attention of the room. "There's something I think you should see."

They close around the screen. The recruit - Lynx - has a video loaded, with grainy footage from the holding cell. Wolf sees that there are two screens of playback, twin cameras projecting the cell from two different angles. According to the date in the corner of the screen, the footage is from the second night.

"What is it?" the Sergeant asks.

"You'll see," says Lynx. "Hang on, I'll just find the right part…"

Lynx rewinds, and it's strange for Wolf to see a pixelated version of himself on the screen, just standing up and crossing to the door, leaving Cub for the night. Wolf's heart skips up to his mouth when he realises that if Lynx had gone back just another second or two, they'd have seen him hitting Cub. He's suddenly gratefully for the recruit's tactful timing.

Lynx has gone too far back, because he skips ahead now, fastforwarding a period of time consisting of nothing but Cub tied to the chair, until suddenly he slows back down again to regular speed. The timestamp in the corner indicates about an hour after Wolf left.

And that's when the cell door opens again.

Wolf's first thought is a flashback to when they were eavesdropping beside the cabin, when the guard who'd been on the door had quite clearly said that nobody but him and Wolf had entered the cell. Had he been lying…?

But when Wolf's eyes adjust to the grainy quality of the footage, he realises that the guard hasn't broken his word yet. It's him. It's the guard.

"What's he carrying?" Snake mutters. Wolf's hands fall to the man's hand.

Snake gets his answer a moment later, when he strides towards Cub, and the object comes into clearer view. It's a water bottle, which Wolf realises shouldn't be that much of a surprise. Even if they weren't letting him have food, he'd assumed that MI6 were smart enough not to let Cub die of dehydration.

As he saunters closer to Cub, they seem to be exchanging words, and Wolf sees the Sergeant's eyes narrow.

"What's that man's name?" he demands.

"I don't know, sir," Wolf says quietly. He honestly hadn't given the guard much thought. But he is MI6 – an operative, if not an agent. And he suddenly recalls the agent commenting about Cub, that first night.

On the screen, the guard unscrews the cap of the bottle and holds it out to Cub, but doesn't bring it near enough for him to drink. Taunting him, Wolf realises. He says something. Then he pours the water out onto the floor in front of Cub, right before his eyes. Only when the smallest of drops is left does he finally let Cub have some.

"Dick move," Wolf comments, feeling thoroughly uncomfortable with what he's just seen.

"There's more," Lynx says darkly. "Keep watching."

The Sergeant and Snake both look as grim as Wolf feels, but their eyes, like Wolf's, are similarly glued to the screen.

Wolf expects the man to leave, but he doesn't. Not straight away. As they watch, the guard sets the bottle down on the side, and then pulls something else out of his pocket, something Wolf recognises this time. When he lights the cigarette, the end is a glowing beacon within the monochrome footage. He's saying something, making more conversation with Cub, which in itself can't be entirely orthodox, since Cub was a lethal assassin in the eyes of the SAS at this point.

And then, when the cigarette is smoked down to a stub, the guard stops pacing. He takes a step closer to Cub, and all of a sudden Wolf isn't breathing. On the screen, Cub flinches away from him; he looks as tense as Wolf feels. And then the guard quite casually reaches out, flips up Cub's sleeve, and grinds the cigarette end into his skin.

On both screens, Cub jerks simultaneously, bucking against the restraints. But there's nowhere for him to go. The guard only takes another drag and then puts it out against Cub's skin again.

Wolf sees red. His fists tighten at his sides; everything in him is screaming in indignation.

The mother _fucker_.

And then Wolf is flooded with guilt. The pieces had been right there in front of him – Cub never sleeping for some reason, and looking progressively worse and worse each day… How had he missed it? The signs of dehydration alone should have been blindingly obvious. Cub was being tortured all along, not for information, but for the pure, sick gratification of an MI6 operative with a vendetta, who had openly disliked him from the beginning.

"Fucking hell," Snake breathes. "That's – that's fucked up."

And the Sergeant is looking just as angry as Wolf feels. His face is a tight mask.

"That's enough," he says harshly. The recruit stops the playback. "That's more than enough to warrant intervention. Wolf, Snake, get down to that cell. I want Rider as far away from those fucking people as we can get him. T Unit are in Cabin 7. Fetch them and bring those bloody agents into custody. Snake, you have medic training – do what you can for Rider. I'll have a doctor brought in from the nearest hospital as soon as we can."

They obey without question. Snake sums up Wolf's thoughts pretty nicely, as they're tucking extra guns into their belts.

"Let's go gut the bastards."

T Unit is the newest qualified SAS unit, and as soon as Wolf sees them, he can understand why the Sergeant chose them. They're not seasoned SAS men in the way that K Unit are, but they're not new recruits either; they've passed selection, and they all have solid army experience. They look a little startled when Wolf and Snake burst into their cabin, armed for a fight, but when they've heard the basics of the situation, their expressions turn grim and serious. They comply quickly enough, and then they're heading towards the cabin.

.

.

They're only thirty feet away when Wolf stops in his tracks. The others follow suit.

"What is it?" says Snake. All of them are watching him.

Wolf can't answer, but he'd had a feeling all of a sudden, not to go any further. The hairs on the back of his neck are going haywire.

He spots the bodies a moment later.

"There!"

Wolf and Snake are at the scene in a heartbeat.

"Scarab and Jaguar," Snake breathes.

The two men are both sprawled out on the grass, in the shadow of the cabin. Perhaps in the dark of the night they'd have been concealed, but in the emerging morning light, they're visible enough for Wolf to have spotted them.

"Jaguar has a pulse," Snake confirms, lowering his ear to the man's mouth. "And he's breathing."

"Scarab too," says Wolf a moment later. He looks down at the body beneath him. He might be alive, but he's been knocked out cold. The side of his head is sticky with blood.

Wolf meets Snake's eyes and sees his own fear reflected there.

If the guards knocked Scarab and Jaguar unconscious… that means the agents didn't follow the order to pause the interrogation. Which means they've still been torturing Cub, this entire time.

"We need to move _now_!"

.

.

Twisty twisty twisty... Poor Alex. He needs a hug. And he'll get one! Soon!

Did anyone suspect the guard was up to no good? I'm curious about how obvious it was.

I know this is a lot of dialogue, but I needed to move things along. Review if you want to see Alex finally be rescued... think about the cramp he must have in his legs, being tied to that chair for all this time...

Okay, in all seriousness, I really, really appreciate the support I've had for this fic so far. Almost at the finish line now. Thanks for sticking with me.


	8. VII

Hello, sweet readers! Look at what I wrote because my brain didn't want to produce anything for SpyFest. Please review, I desperately need the attention... (I'm stuck inside sick while my friends are all having fun together...)

.

 **VII**

.

"Follow mine and Snake's lead," Wolf orders as the task force closes in on the cabin. "And wait for my word. This is going to be messy. Shoot to incapacitate. We want them alive, but don't let them get away."

When they cross the final few yards and round the corner of the holding cell, Wolf realises how the MI6 agents were planning on dealing with the consequences of assailing two SAS soldiers.

They hadn't been planning on sticking around to deal with them.

The door of Cub's holding cell is thrown wide open, and parked beside the cabin is a black van – the one Cub had been brought here in, and the one they were seemingly planning to use to smuggle him out of the camp. Two of the agents and both guards are in Wolf's line of sight. The guards have their hands full, hauling along an uncooperative figure with bound hands. They whip around at the sound of the soldiers, faces stricken.

Wolf raises his gun and doesn't hesitate.

The fight is quick and brutal. Even if they hadn't been outnumbered and vastly outgunned, an MI6 team would be no match for one and a half trained SAS units. Wolf and Snake both go for the guards first, shooting them in the leg before they can reach for their own weapons. There are yelps of pain, and the guards drop Cub like a dead weight. Wolf is about to signal to hold off, in case Cub gets hit by a stray bullet, but no sooner has Cub hit the ground, he's rolling away, propelling himself out of the line of fire and into the nearby bushes.

 _Smart kid_ , Wolf thinks with a flash of pride, and then turns his attention back to his captors.

"Take them," he growls.

Leaving the injured guards for T Unit to deal with, Wolf launches himself at nearest agent, who happens to be Agent Ryan. He doesn't have time to run, only to react to the fist Wolf sends flying at his face with weak block. Wolf brushes it off and catches him with a hard punch to the ribs that sends him reeling back and smashing into the wall of the cabin. Ryan doubles up, and Wolf finishes him off with a knee in the gut that makes him crumple to the ground. Wolf yanks the agent's hands behind his back almost effortlessly, and binds them with the same kind of zip tie that they used on Cub.

Glancing across, Wolf sees the other agent and the guards in the same position, subdued, with T Unit's guns trained down on them.

Wolf opens his mouth to tell one of them to check the cabin for the final, missing agent – the leader, the interrogator – but before he can do it, he helpfully makes his whereabouts known. The low rev of an engine cuts through the air and the van screeches into action, back door flying open haphazardly. Already in the driver's seat, the agent must have decided to abandon his fellow operatives and try to make a getaway.

He doesn't get far. Before Wolf can even say anything, Snake is on it, shooting out the tires. The vehicle flails wildly, forcing the driver to slam on the brake. The van skids to an abrupt, shuddering stop. When the agent emerges from the driver's seat, he doesn't even have the chance to put both feet on the ground before there's a bullet in his leg. He falls on his face with a cry of pain that doesn't make Wolf feel remotely sorry for the man. He's the one who cut up Cub. He deserves everything that's coming to him.

And just like that, it's over. The lingering sound of the gunshots is already fading from Wolf's ears. A hushed, questioning silence falls over them as Snake goes over to arrest the final agent.

"Take them to Cabin 10," Wolf instructs. "And fetch the Sergeant. Now!"

But when they begin to escort the agents away, he holds out a hand.

"Wait a second."

Wolf strides up to one of the bound operatives: the guard who tortured Cub.

The guard's face is contorted with pain; he looks up at Wolf with fear in his eyes. Wolf draws back his fist, pulls together all the anger in his body, and punches the guard square in the face. His nose breaks under the force of Wolf's fist with a crack and a splattering of blood that would be sickening, if it didn't give Wolf a vindictive surge of satisfaction.

"Wolf," comes Snake's voice in his ear, low and urgent voice. " _Cub_."

Wolf doesn't waste any more time.

"Get them out of here," he growls, and then it's over; the agents are dealt with, and the only thought on Wolf's mind is Cub.

They find him a few feet away, lying motionless. The first thing Wolf does is pull out the knife from his belt and cut through the ties on his wrists, letting them fall to the ground. He can't help his grimace at the sight of the raw, bloodied skin underneath, even though he knows it's far from the worst of Cub's injuries. He hears Snake's sharp intake of breath when they roll Cub over and he sees the mess they've made of him.

"We need to get him somewhere with more light," Snake says. "And a flat surface. I need to check him over properly."

He's glancing back at the holding cell, but Wolf shakes his head.

"Not there," he says. "He's spent long enough in there. I know where to take him…"

Minutes later, they're throwing open the door of K Unit's old barracks, and Wolf is laying Cub down gently on his old bunk. Snake flicks on the light switch, and something in Wolf twists when he sees the state Cub is in.

"God, what did they _do_ to him…" Snake mutters.

Cub is half-conscious, his eyes closed but restless beneath his eyelids, his lips moving weakly. He's littered in bruises, some from the fall he took a few days ago but some of them fresh. The bullet wound isn't just a bullet wound anymore: it's been hacked at, picked apart, surrounded by so many lacerations that his shoulder is a mess of bloody tissue. And now that he's looking for them, Wolf doesn't miss the fucking cigarette burns on his arm.

Wolf swallows down nausea.

"He needs water," says Snake, an order behind his words, and Wolf pulls himself together enough to comply. He crosses the room, fills the cup beside the sink and passes it to Snake, who carefully presses it Cub's lips and makes him drink.

"Get me a bucket and a medical kit."

Snake goes into full medic mode. His voice is calm and cool as he treats Cub, his hands moving expertly to clean away the blood. Wolf can't do much but fetch items for him, and watch. Sometimes Cub's face twists in pain; sometimes he falls so still that Wolf's heart skips a beat.

Cub stirs to consciousness when Snake is rinsing blood out of the cloth he was using at the sink. His eyes flicker open blearily, roving over the ceiling before they land on Wolf. He looks confused.

"What… are you doing?" he manages to mumble.

"We're fixing you up, Cub."

His frown deepens, uncomprehending, but before he can say anything else, Snake returns, sinking down at Cub's side.

"Try to keep still, alright?" he says softly, his Scottish accent pronounced, and Cub's eyes slip shut again when Snake begins pressing the antiseptic into his wounds.

Time passes strangely over the next hour or so. Snake works tirelessly, treating every one of the cuts individually, and then bandaging and re-bandaging them when the blood continues to seep through nonetheless. Fuck, he's lost a _lot_ of blood. He's so pale, and he's gone so still now, no longer restless but listless and looking far too deathly for Wolf's liking. The Sergeant turns up at one point, and he goes pale himself at the sight of Cub. He doesn't stay long, but he informs them that high command has given them custody of Alex Rider for the foreseeable future.

Cub is away from MI6. Now, they just need to see if they can fix everything that MI6 has done to him in time.

The ambulance arrives from the air. The helicopter touches down onto the camp's helipad, and then paramedics are rushing Cub onto a stretcher, with Wolf following closely behind.

"We can only take one of you," shouts one of the paramedics over the roar of the propellers, when Wolf climbs into the chopper right behind them.

 _Just try to fucking stop me_ , Wolf thinks. The devil himself couldn't drag him away from Cub, after all this. But when he looks back to the ground, the Sergeant has arrived, and he gives Wolf a short nod of permission.

The SAS camp shrinks to a doll's house in the distance as they rise into the air.

"Jesus," says one of the paramedics, from Cub's side. "Someone really did a number on him."

They really had. In more ways than the paramedic could possibly know.

.

.

Wolf stares at the blood that drains through the tubing and into Cub's veins through a needle in his arm. It's Wolf's. When they told him that Cub needed a blood transfusion, he'd volunteered off the bat. Now, it hits him abruptly that this really wasn't how he pictured an interrogation assignment to play out.

Cub was in surgery for so long that Wolf's stomach was working itself into knots of worry, and he was just about to pull one of the nurses aside and ask if something had gone wrong when the rather weary-looking surgeon finally exited the room, pulling off her gloves.

"He's stable," she'd told Wolf, and he'd almost had to sit down in relief. "For now. Your medic prevented any infection from setting in." She looked Wolf up and down, and shook her head. "I don't want to know how someone so young ended up in that state. You're with the Special Air Services, aren't you?"

Wolf nodded. Being the nearest hospital to the SAS camp, they must be used to seeing some unconventional injuries.

"Someone will be around with the Official Secrets Act soon enough," he'd told her. She shook her head again, looking thoroughly unhappy with the situation, despite having saved her patient. Wolf had hesitated, but spoken again, as she was turning to leave. "It won't be happen again," he'd promised, as much for his own ears as for hers. "I'll see to it."

Wolf was in Cub's room as soon as they'd allowed him in.

Unconscious against the stark white sheets, the bruising on Cub's face stand out more than ever; his hair messy and his face smoothed over with sleep. He looks his age. They've separated him from the other patients; this ward is airy and empty save for Wolf, Cub, and the assortment of IVs pumping various liquidy concoctions into Cub. Wolf supposes that someone from high command will arrive soon, and he'll have to explain things. Perhaps he should write something down beforehand; Wolf had never been the best at speaking when he's put on the spot. Wolf gnaws on his lip. No, this _definitely_ wasn't how he had pictured the interrogation going. And the truth about Cub is still as much of a mystery as it had been at the beginning.

"M-mmm…"

Wolf's eyes snap over to Cub. He's beginning to stir. Wolf is just moving to call for the doctor when he hesitates, his training kicking in. The last time Cub was fully conscious, he was being tortured. Wolf needs to be tactful.

Cub blinks awake slowly, noticeably wincing against the brightness of the white hospital walls. When his eyes find Wolf, they widen slightly, and Wolf thinks he sees apprehension flash through them before a wall of impassive blankness comes down over them like a mask. Cub's eyes shift to the IVs, the blood bag, and he realises where he has been taken. Then his head falls back against the pillow, his eyes slip shut again, and he lets out a long breath.

"Hey, Cub."

"Is this how Blunt is going to play it then?" Cub says quietly. His voice is hoarse. He sounds utterly exhausted. Wolf's chest aches in pity for the kid. "Torture me, then fix me up? Over and over again? Fucking hell, I thought he would at least get it over with quickly."

Wolf knows that he needs to set the record straight immediately.

"Cub, Six are out of the picture. The agents that tortured you are under arrest. You're in SAS custody now."

Cub's eyes shoot open. Doubt practically radiates from him as he searches Wolf's face.

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Why would they be under arrest?"

"Because they were using some pretty unacceptable methods on you. It didn't sit well with me. Nor with the Sergeant. And besides, you're only seventeen. You shouldn't have been there in the first place."

"My age has never stopped them before," Cub says sharply. "Why should it matter now?"

"Maybe it doesn't matter to Six, but it means something to the SAS. And they brought you onto our turf. You knew you were being held at Brecon Beacons, right?"

He knew Cub had recognised the cabin the moment he'd woken up in the holding cell.

Cub's eyes are still wide and round and sceptical, as if he doesn't dare to believe it.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" he asks, although it sounds like he's starting to wonder if it can possibly be true – that he's out, that it's over, that he's _safe_.

Wolf shrugs. "Wait and see, kid. The Sergeant will be here soon, and someone from high command should turn up in the next few days. But you won't be seeing any MI6 agents in the near future."

Cub's eyes fall to the hospital sheets. Wolf can see him struggling to take it in. He gives the kid privacy, averting his own eyes as Cub processes it all. He gets to his feet and fetches a nurse, telling her that Cub is awake, she returns with Cub's surgeon. Wolf hovers at the side-lines as she checks over Cub, running through questions about pain and nausea and dizziness and a dozen other frightening possibilities. Cub replies to every one with short, quiet answers, his eyes downturned and his mind clearly elsewhere, and when she's done, she leaves them alone again.

A long silence falls between them, so long that Wolf begins to notice the faint ticking of the clock on the other side of the room. He idly watches the spider on the opposite wall painstakingly making its way towards the open window. He sure as hell isn't going to force Cub to talk if he's not ready.

" _Why?_ " Cub asks, when he finally speaks. His voice is strained. "Why would the SAS want to help me? Why do _you_ want to help me?" His gaze is piercing. "I'm an _assassin_."

Suddenly Wolf's throat is uncomfortably tight.

"I know you are," he acknowledges, trying to keep his voice neutral, and forcing himself not to look away. He _had_ known, deep down. The MI6 interrogator had treated Cub like a traitor. There had to be at least a grain of truth to the accusations against Cub; they couldn't all be lies, even if they'd been distorted by MI6. Cub was a contract killer. "Still doesn't make it right, what they did to you."

Wolf shifts in his chair, wondering how to phrase this.

"Listen, Cub. You're safe for now, okay? If you don't want to talk about anything, nobody's going to torture you into it. Six kept us pretty much in the dark about you. The things they did tell us were exaggerated, mixed in with a few lies. But if you can tell me anything that would help, about how you went from being Special Ops to… to Scorpia. It might help, if the information comes from you, rather than someone else." _It will make you look less guilty_ , hangs in the air, unsaid.

Cub turns away from him, sinks back into the pillows. Wolf notices the blood bag is empty now. The last of the red drains from the tube into Cub's system, and then only the dregs remain. For a few minutes, he doesn't respond, and Wolf doesn't think he will talk. But then...

"It was six months ago," says Cub. His eyes are fixed firmly upon the opposite wall. "Blunt sent me to Russia. There was a hostage situation… it wasn't good. There were kids involved. Three of them had already been killed, because the agent Blunt sent before me was bloody incompetent."

Wolf has heard one side of this story already, from Snake.

"Anyway, we got them out alive, but I ended up in hospital. I took a few too many risks. Got myself pulverised."

"Why?" Wolf questions.

He sees Cub take a deep breath.

"To be perfectly honest, I didn't really care what happened to me. A week before the mission, I got back from another one, and I… I found my guardian dead on the kitchen floor." Cub's eyes have a glassy, deadened quality to them. "I was always scared about someone targeting her. One of the enemies I'd made. But that wasn't even it. She'd just had an accident. Fallen from one of the counters and cracked her head on the tiles. She'd already been dead for two days. But the paramedics said she might have had a chance, if someone else had been with her, to call an ambulance. If _I'd_ been with her."

"Shit, Cub," Wolf mutters. No wonder the kid was borderline suicidal. Wolf had seen soldiers carrying that kind of guilt around with them, when they came back from deployment; he'd seen what it could do to a person. "I'm sorry."

Cub shakes his head, and anger twists his features.

"You know what Blunt said? He said it was _unfortunate_. Then he sent me on another mission six days later. I missed her funeral."

 _Jesus_ , Wolf thinks. He was never going to complain about the Sergeant again.

"Anyway, I got myself fucked up on the hostage mission, and Scorpia came to me when I was in hospital. They sent in one of their agents in disguised as a nurse. We didn't exactly, uh, see eye to eye before then. Me and Scorpia. I ruined one of their operations, a few years back, and they tried to have me assassinated for it. I thought they might be looking for revenge again. But that wasn't it. Turns out they'd been keeping tabs on me… and they wanted me back."

Wolf's eyebrows go up in surprise. The name _Scorpia_ was associated with ruthlessness and vengeance, not forgiveness.

"They wanted you as an operative?"

Cub shrugged, and then immediately winced as the motion dislodged his shoulder. "Kind of. I had a pretty high success rate. I made a bit of a name for myself, over the past few years. But mostly, I think they wanted to piss off MI6. ' _Look, we managed to turn your teenage agent_.' Maybe they'd been hired to make the British Intelligence look incompetent, or weak, or something. I didn't ask."

"You joined them, though."

Wolf thinks he sees shame weigh down Cub's eyes.

"I just… I just couldn't stop thinking about what Blunt had said. Like Jack dying was a fucking _inconvenience_ for him. And the things the Scorpia agent said – that Blunt was running me into the ground. She was right, to be honest. I couldn't go on like that for much longer… I just didn't want to be his fucking _pet agent_ anymore." He pushes a hand through his hair. "I was stupid. And angry. I knew they were using me to spite MI6, but... shit, I wanted to spite them just as much as Scorpia did."

Wolf can understand that, alright. "Why go with Scorpia though, Cub, if you wanted out? Why not just run away from everything?"

Cub shakes his head. "You don't understand what MI6 are like. I didn't start working for them by choice. They told me they'd deport my guardian. And where was I supposed to go? There wasn't anywhere that they wouldn't be able to find me."

The pieces are beginning to fall into place in Wolf's mind. Cub was blackmailed into the world of espionage, and then once he was in the game, he was trapped in it. There was no quitting, no retiring. His only option was to switch sides.

"They offered me protection," Cub says, his voice small and full of shame. "I know what Scorpia is. I know how vile they are. But they knew me too. They only offered me missions I wouldn't object to. It was like you said. Cherry-picking. The people they sent me to kill... they weren't exactly great people. I guess they wouldn't have let a regular agent do that, but I don't think I was a long-term investment as an assassin. They wanted me for my reputation. To show me off to the world and all that. They probably would have killed me when the novelty wore off."

Wolf leans back. Finally, _finally_ , he understands.

"I…" Cub is struggling again. "I regretted it. As soon as I fired the first shot, I regretted it. The guy was a drug dealer, but— _fuck_ , he was still a fucking _person_. And I _killed_ him." His eyes squeeze shut. "I only managed four hits. Then I couldn't take it any longer." He glances around at the hospital room. "You should have left me to MI6. I don't deserve this."

Wolf doesn't even know where to start with that. Before he can reply, though, something else that Cub said plays over in his mind, and catches his attention. He frowns.

"What do you mean, you couldn't take it any longer?"

Cub was apprehended, by surprise, during one of his hits...

Cub drags a hand over his eyes. "It was you that shot me down, right? MI6 knew where I was going to be because of an anonymous tip-off. That was me."

Wolf's eyes widen.

"Shit, Cub. That… that changes things."

He sees cold anger flit across his features again. "I knew they would torture me, but I didn't anticipate them using you. MI6 requested you, didn't they?"

Wolf nods in affirmation.

"That's Blunt's idea of a threat. Using you against me. Now that Jack's gone, maybe he has a fucking list or something, of people he can blackmail me with…"

Wolf has already heard this, back in the cell, when he was being interrogated by the agents.

"You said that was why you didn't tell me anything," he says. "Because you wanted to keep me away from all this."

Cub nods. Then he cocks his head at Wolf.

"Why didn't you stay out of it? You could have just left me to them."

Wolf's eyebrows go up.

"You think you're the only one who protects your own?" Wolf shakes his head. "You trained with us, kid. With me. No way I was leaving you to those bastards. And besides, this isn't just about you. If the head of MI6 has been exploiting _you_ left, right and centre, he could have been doing all sorts of other shady shit. And those agents were fucking sadistic. If that's how _Alan Blunt_ is training operatives to treat prisoners, then someone needs to step in. Special Ops is one branch of the government. They're not God."

A crease appears in Cub's brow. He blinks, as if that's a point he hasn't considered before.

Still, there's one thing that he isn't willing to let go.

"Wolf… I killed people. I assassinated four people in cold blood. I have blood on my hands…"

"And I'm not saying that's okay," Wolf cuts through him. "But you had a bunch of shitty choices. Jesus, Cub, you're seventeen. Most adults would have cracked in that situation. And you turned yourself in. You weren't planning on staying an assassin. That's gonna go a long way in your defence."

Cub is looking at him like he can't comprehend what Wolf is saying.

"Listen," says Wolf, leaning forward. "Let's just say that they wouldn't have sent me in as a sniper, if they thought I would miss."

Cub's eyes widen in realisation. _Oh._

He isn't the only killer in the room. Wolf's nails dig into his palms, forcing the memories down.

"We're SAS, Cub. Not civilians. It's not like we haven't seen all kinds of fucked up shit before. You don't need to try and protect us."

Silence falls again. This time, though, it's one of mutual understanding.

"Thank you," Cub says quietly, eventually. "For getting me out of there."

"You're welcome, kid."

The sound of the door opening has Wolf looking over his shoulder. The nurse gestures for him to leave the room.

Wolf turns back to Cub before he does.

"Looks like the professionals are going to do their thing. But listen, Cub, I'm gonna be on the other side of the door until… well, until someone with a bigger gun than me tells me to leave. If you need anything, you call for me. You hear?"

Cub nods. Wolf thinks he sees his lips twitching, in what could almost be the shadow of a smile.

The exhaustion of the night's events hits Wolf as he sinks down into the chair outside Cub's room. But he doesn't sleep. He strips off his combat jacket and sits up upright, keeping watching and waiting. The fallout is just beginning. It's going to be big, and Wolf is going to be there for every single second of it.


	9. epilogue

Well, hell must have frozen over because I've finally finished a WIP! I thought I'd throw in some different perspectives other than Wolf's, for the epilogue. It's mostly tying up loose ends, but I hope it's a somewhat satisfying ending. Thank you to the wonderful people who have followed and faved and reviewed along the way. I've been blessed with some very kind reviewers and I really appreciate all the encouragement and feedback :)

(To the guest reviewer who asked about my other unfinished stuff- Leap of Faith will be completed at some point, but I don't want to make any promises about when that might be. It depends on when I get my act together enough to start writing it again.)

.

.

 _3 days later_

The Sergeant leans back in his chair as he surveys the man in front of him. It's been a long two hours since he was brought into the questioning room, and the Sergeant doesn't feel any closer to understanding him at all. Every statement is met with a wry curl of his lip, as if he already knows far more about the topic in question that the Sergeant possibly could. Every question is expertly avoided.

The Sergeant knows why he's been chosen as a middleman: they're both connected to Cub; they both know what they're dealing with. Yet he doesn't feel as if he's done any better of a job than any random SAS lackey might have done.

"I don't think you understand how much shit you're in, Mr Blunt," he says at length.

But Alan Blunt doesn't look remotely fazed.

It's only the third time the Sergeant has met the (former?) head of MI6 in person. He isn't a big man by any means. His eyes are small and beady and his neck is sinewy with old age, in a combination that reminds the Sergeant distinctly of a vulture. His suit is almost immaculate – almost, but for a small coffee stain on his right lapel, the only evidence of the abrupt arrest that brought him into custody. Under the rather harsh lights, the Sergeant can see that his clothes are slightly creased, giving away the fact that he spent last night in a cell. Yet he holds himself as if he's in a particularly dull meeting, rather than being cross-examined under allegations of corruption.

"I understand the Rider boy has been telling a lot of tales," Blunt says evasively.

He casts his eyes around the room. A standard questioning cell, deep underground in a high security unit, with looming cement walls and a wall-length two-way mirror.

"Not the ones I wanted him to tell, unfortunately," Blunt sighs, and the Sergeant balks that he has the nerve to sound _disappointed_. Blunt fixes the Sergeant with a searching gaze, a knowing gleam in his eye. "What is it that he's been telling you, Sergeant? That the evil spies corrupted his poor, innocent soul? The boy isn't a child. He's an anomaly. A freak of nature, if you will. He's competent enough to complete assignments that would have floored fully grown adults. In fact, he has a virtually unparalleled success rate. You know he's mature enough to be held responsible for his actions."

"We're not talking about Rider's responsibilities," the Sergeant growls. He knows what Blunt is doing - he isn't talking to the Sergeant, but to the audience concealed behind the mirror; the group of government officials and SAS representatives who are going decides two fates: Blunt's and Cub's. "We're talking about yours. The fact remains that he should never have been sent on those missions."

"And yet, if he hadn't, thousands of people would be dead."

The Sergeant can't shake the feeling that he's losing this battle.

"So you don't deny that you blackmailed Rider?" he persists. "That you forced him into intelligence work he didn't want to undertake?"

Blunt's eyes are utterly cold. He spreads his hands as if he has nothing to hide.

"In my time, Sergeant, I've been faced with many difficult decisions. I don't deny that I've made choices that might cause judgmental outsiders such as yourself to shake your heads and condemn me as a monster. The fact remains that I am a loyal man, and I have served my country for over fifty years. _Alex Rider_ , on the other hand, is a contract killer who betrayed the British government and joined a terrorist organisation. Tell me, Sergeant: is the SAS truly going to take the side of this murderer?"

The Sergeant forces himself to maintain his composure, to not let any of his doubt and anxiety seep into his expression. But Blunt senses it anyway, because he leans back with a self-satisfied look on his face.

Since Cub was rushed to hospital three nights ago, the Sergeant has had several conversations with Cub, and he can't help that he's taken a liking to the boy. There was more of the quiet, deferential boy who'd first come to Brecon Beacons in him, than the Sergeant had expected. He's certainly proving much more agreeable than the man in front of him now, who's managed to give the Sergeant a throbbing headache from sheer smugness in the last hour alone. But it's not just a matter of likability. Although he's personally starting to loathe this man, Blunt isn't head of MI6 for nothing; he's playing his tune well. The room is soundproofed to the nines, but the Sergeant can practically hear the mutters and whispers of the observers behind the mirror.

 _Blunt has a point._

"You're not getting away with this," the Sergeant promises, standing up, but Blunt doesn't so much as blink.

"If I deserve to be in a cell, then Rider deserves the same, at the very least. If I were you, I'd put a bullet between his eyes and dispose of him quickly and quietly. The boy is a Scorpia agent. You're an intelligent man, Sergeant. You know he's too much of a liability to be left alive."

The words ring in his head as the Sergeant leaves the cell and enters the adjacent room. He doesn't miss the way that it's occupants look away quickly as he enters. He can feel his heart sinking. The odds that they're going to be able to get Cub off the hook are looking slimmer by the day...

The Sergeant looks down at Blunt, sitting in the cell, looking perfectly confident in himself. His fist clenches at his side. They've expended enough effort getting Cub out of MI6's clutches so far. They're not giving up now. They're just going to have to try another angle.

And then, Blunt's own words drift back to him.

 _He's competent enough to complete missions that would have floored fully grown adults... In fact, he has a virtually unparalleled success rate…_

An idea begins to come to life in the Sergeant's mind.

.

.

 _One week later_

Pain thrums through Alex's shoulder as he pulls the fresh shirt over his head. He ignores the discomfort, shrugging the thin material over his torso, and then glances in the mirror above the sink. He hasn't spent an awful lot of time studying his own reflection in the past six months, and the face that greets him is somehow both familiar and unfamiliar. The sensations are equally disconcerting. He definitely looks older. His features sharper, and his hair more brown than fair now. Alex runs a hand through it, pushing it back off his face; it's started to get long without him noticing. He's taller as well. One last growth spurt and he'll probably no longer be able to pass as a schoolkid. The bruising around his left eye and his jaw make for grim shadows on his face, as does the half-healed split lip. He wonders if it will get him a bit of sympathy today.

It's been a week since he woke up in hospital, to the unbelievable promise that MI6 were out of his life. He's spent the last seven days in this hospital room, somewhere in Brecon Beacons, with a variety of uniformed officials sporadically entering his room to ask him questions. And now, finally, he's leaving the hospital.

They're taking him to London. It's decision day.

He might still look a little roughed up, but the clothes he's been given hide the worst by far of the injuries. Beneath the layers of bandages, the marks from the agent's knife are still poppy-red, and the bullet wound is torn and frayed and generally awful, both in terms of pain and to look at. It won't heal as easily as the last one did.

Alex meets his own eyes again in the mirror. He can't help but think that they seem a lot less innocent than they did three years ago. They will give him away, no matter what he says or how he acts.

His fingers curl against the cold granite of the sink. Nerves are bubbling away in his stomach, despite everything. Alex didn't think he was capable of being nervous about the future anymore. From the moment he'd picked up the cheap, disposable phone and dialled the office of the Royal and General, leaving that anonymous tip, he'd known that he was going to die. He'd known it when he'd felt the bullet slam into him, sending him spinning through the air as the ground rushed up to meet him. He'd known it when he'd woken in a cell in Brecon Beacons. And he'd known it more than ever when the door had slammed shut, trapping him with three vengeful MI6 agents.

But then he hadn't died. Then Wolf had shown up with an SAS unit, storming his prison cell like something out of a Jason Bourne movie, and then suddenly, Alex had allies, defenders, people who wanted to help him. And he doesn't know what to do with it. He isn't sure where things are going to go from here.

The sound of the door opening pulls him out of his thoughts. It's an SAS man, not one that Alex knows by name. He holds open the door, and jerks his head.

"Time to go, Rider."

Alex doesn't complain when they handcuff him again. He even manages not to grimace when the metal cuffs bite at the skin of his wrists, that's still a little sore from the last ones. He doesn't harbour any illusions of the SAS trusting him, even if they've inexplicably decided to help him. There have been guards at his door for the last week; to protect him from other people, or other people from him? Probably both. At least he's not in the back of a van this time; he climbs into the jeep with the Sergeant in the front and the other soldier driving.

But before they set off, the opposite door opens, and Wolf climbs into the passenger seat beside him. He claps a hand on Alex's uninjured shoulder.

"You ready, Cub?"

Alex nods. The jeep rumbles into life, gravel crunching under the tires as they leave the camp in the distance. The sky rumbles and rain begins to fall as they reach the main road. The journey passes in silence, filled with the hollow roar of water pattering down onto the car. Alex rests his head upon the window, but he can't sleep. He watches the land that glides past the window, his eyes following the wavering lines of the road like a child's.

He isn't sure how he feels about K Unit's sudden loyalty. A part of him is immensely grateful; how could he not be? But another part of him thinks that he doesn't deserve any of it. And the rational part of him is also thinking that it might be for nothing…

When they finally arrive at their destination, the sky above them is steely grey and thick with thunderclouds, but Alex is more interested in the place they've arrived at. The building is tall and grey, nondescript, but Alex has spent enough time in Intelligence to know better than to judge a book by its cover. He doesn't doubt that the unimpressive façade masks some kind of high security outlet. Sure enough, once they pass through a rather grimy, rundown reception area, the lower levels of the building are much more sleek and up-to-date. Suited officials pass him in the corridor; Alex ignores the stares.

They lead him down into a large questioning room that's completely bare apart from a table in the centre of the room. On the opposite side, two men are already sitting, one wearing a tailored suit and the other in combat uniform. Alex doesn't complain when he's handcuffed to the desk. The guard leaves the room wordlessly, and as silence falls over the questioning room, Alex's eyes are drawn to the side of the room, where a two-way mirror spans the length of the room. He wonders how many people sit behind that glass, observing him like a caged animal.

"Agent Rider," the man in combats greet him. "My name is Colonel Richards. This is Agent Leith, from MI5."

Alex doesn't know what they expect him to say, so he says nothing. He bites down the urge to remark that they're already shaping up to be better hosts than his last interrogators. He doesn't want to antagonise them... Last time, when he was being held by MI6, his fate was sealed; he had nothing left to lose. Now, things are different.

"Firstly," says the MI5 agent, "I'd like to apologise to you on behalf of the British government. Regardless of the outcome of today's meeting, Alan Blunt is not going to get away with what he's done."

Alex stares at his hands, folding them together, figuring out how much leeway he has with the cuffs. The smooth silver chains fold over one another, making the reflected light ripple from link to link.

"And what has he done exactly?" he finds himself asking, looking back up at the agents.

"Well, he's broken many laws, in relation to you. Child exploitation, blackmail, human rights violations..."

"Is that what you brought me here to discuss?" Alex can hear the wariness in his own voice. Caged animal, indeed.

Colonel Richards pinpoints him with a earnest gaze. He's already reminding Alex of the Sergeant.

"We're not here to trick you or trip you up, Agent Rider. We're just trying to get a full picture of… the situation."

 _A full picture of you_ , is what they mean.

Alex glances sideways, at the mirror that spanned the length of the room. He doesn't doubt that there's a whole circus behind the two-way glass, observing him, recording him. He wonders how many psychologists they've brought in. He pictures them scribbling down notes as he sits here.

"Do you think you're going to be able to cooperate with us?" Colonel Richards asks in a perfectly even, perfectly reasonable voice.

Alex sighs, and sits back in his chair. Jack did always warn him that interviews were one of the worst parts of adulthood.

"I suppose so," he consents.

The colonel sends the agent a nod, and he flicks a small switch on the recording device that's set up on the table. The glowing light on the interface flips from red to green.

And so the interrogation begins.

Later, Alex will reflect that it could have been a lot worse. The air of discomfort, of unfinished business, continues to linger. But there are no moments of open hostility; the agent and the colonel are competent enough to avoid that.

He doesn't expect them to go back as far as they do with his history, bringing up pictures of Ian and Jack and his old schoolfriends, cross-examining him about the years before he got into spying, undoubtedly for the men in white coats who are trying to psychoanalyse him. Alex does his best to answer as honestly as he can. It's strange to have these old memories forced onto him, memories that feel as if they belong to another lifetime. It feels even stranger when he realises that he's closer to his old home than ever, being back in London, after so long. He wonders if it's wrong that he feels more at home answering the questions about his missions. Those memories he has already compartmentalised into pure fact. He reels it off, hardly having to think. Where he was sent. Who he met there. What he did. Why he agreed to work for MI6.

And then there are the hardest questions of all, when he comes to the account of his last mission, and there's nothing left to discuss but his defection from MI6. The room seems to grow colder as Agent Leith breaches the subject, and Alex fights not to draw in on himself when he answers their questions about Scorpia. He wishes they would look somewhere other than him. He can feel the eyes on him – not just these, but the ones behind the two-way glass – and he feels as if he's burning. Still, he answers every question, even if he can hear the way his voice becomes rougher.

When they ask for the names of the men he killed, he shuts his eyes for a moment. He takes a breath, and imagines that he's back in that hospital room again, that it's only Wolf he's telling it to, not these strangers. Then he opens his eyes and gives the names, one by one.

Alex doesn't let himself try to analyse what it is that he sees in the agent's faces. Hatred? Fear? Disgust? He'd only project his own assumptions onto them, and he knows they're both trying to look neutral and unaffected.

When they get round to questioning him about his capture and interrogation at Brecon Beacons, Alex feels both lightheaded and heavy with tiredness at once. His mind is reeling, and his skin is itching with the urge to be out of this room, yet at the same time he feels like he's been turned inside out and wrung out. He tries not to fidget under their gazes.

He's only paying attention to the voice of the colonel with one ear, when suddenly the man's voice cuts off abruptly. Alex looks up to see the SAS man gazing at him with a curious, furrowed expression on his face.

"What is it that you want, Agent Rider?" the colonel asks suddenly.

A frown works its way across Alex's face.

"I wasn't aware that I had a choice in what happens to me."

"You're not on trial, Rider. Not at the moment, anyway." At least he's honest. "This isn't exactly a conventional situation. I'm just curious about what you'd like to happen, ideally, after this."

Alex's mind drifts. What _does_ he want? Try as he might, he can't conjure up any possibility that he'll actually let himself hope might happen. Ian raised him to be a realist.

Alex goes to say that he doesn't really want anything, but then he stops, the words dying on his tongue. Because that's not quite true, is it?

"I want protection for the people who helped me," he says, looking the colonel square in the eye. "I won't blame you if you want to lock me up and throw away the key. But Wolf and Snake, and the Sergeant – they were only doing what they thought was for the best. I don't want them to be reprimanded for their association with me."

The colonel and the agent exchange a glance, and Alex thinks he sees a hint of surprise flicker between them.

"I can promise you they won't be punished," says the colonel. "As you said, they did what they thought was best, and we're all grateful for their intervention."

"Thank you," says Alex, and he means it.

Silence falls upon the room, and then something occurs to Alex, and he speaks up again.

"Actually, there's one more thing…"

He sees the eyebrows of the agent rising as Alex spells out his request. But he says he'll see what he can do, and then pushes back his chair and leaves the room. After a few minutes of silence, someone comes in and fetches the colonel away too.

Alex is left alone for so long that he almost thinks they've forgotten about him. They won't comply with his request; why would they? He twiddles his thumbs, studying the faint swirling pattern of the table beneath him. When the door opens again, he fully expects it to be a guard, coming to show him to a cell for the night. They've been here for so long that surely it must be verging on night by now.

But when he glances up, it's not a guard standing in the doorway. Alex can't stop his mouth from falling open.

Mrs Jones looks pretty thrown to see him too. At first glance, she looks the same as ever - still wearing a slightly ill-fitting suit, her haircut still framing her face in a way that makes it look strangely long. At second glance, Alex sees the worry lines etched into her face, and the red tinge to her eyes that makes his throat tighten. She crosses the room slowly, and looks grateful to be able to sink down into the seat across from him.

"Alex," she greets him, ever so quietly.

"Mrs Jones."

There's a heavy beat of silence between them. Alex asked to see her, but now he doesn't know what to say. His mind has completely blanked.

Blunt never told him why Mrs Jones suddenly vanished, two years ago, after one of his missions. Suddenly, he was only reporting to one of them, and his questions were predictably ignored. But Alex didn't survive three years of espionage without making contacts, and he'd found out the truth from rumour. Scorpia had confirmed it when he'd switched sides. Mrs Jones had been demoted, supposedly because of incompetence. Letting emotional attachments complicate "certain assignments". Alex knew it meant him. Perhaps she'd finally challenged Blunt about him, and he'd decided that she was a pawn he was willing to sacrifice in order to keep Alex.

"I'm sorry for what you've been through," Mrs Jones ventures.

Alex can't meet her eye, can't bear her sympathy. It's taking an awful lot of effort to keep his composure maintained. He's all but forgotten that there's probably a room full of strangers watching them from behind the glass.

"It's good to see you back, Alex," she says softly.

Alex almost laughs from the ridiculousness of it all.

"You too," he says again, and he means it. "Have they reinstated you?"

"My demotion is being reconsidered," she says, "In light of new evidence."

"Well, I would advise them to make you Blunt's replacement," Alex says, "But I think your résumé is probably better off without a recommendation from me."

Despite everything, Mrs Jones has to press a hand to her lips to hide her smile. And Alex finds himself smiling as well.

Instinct is a strange thing, but over the years, he's come to trust it, and he suddenly knows with odd certainty that Mrs Jones will replace Blunt. MI6 is in better hands than before. Perhaps something good will come out of this, after all.

.

.

 _Six weeks later_

The clearing quietens as the sun wavers lazily on the horizon, beginning to sink beneath the trees. Birds are cooing softly in the trees overhead. Snake raises his gun, eyes narrowing against the dimming light as he trains it on his target.

 _Breathe in. Breathe out._

And then the birds are rocketing out of the nearby trees in alarm at the resounding blast of three gunshots, fired off in quick succession. Snake doesn't miss a beat; his hands reload the magazine on muscle memory, then he switches to the other hand and fires again.

When he's done, he lowers the gun with satisfaction. Four of the bullets have hit the bullseye; the other two are embedded in the innermost circle of the target.

"I'd like to see you beat that," he says to the figure leaning against the nearest tree.

Cub doesn't reply, just holds out his hand for the gun.

A voice in Snake's mind is screaming at him not to give it to him. But he conceals his hesitation and passes over the weapon, placing the smoking metal into Cub's palm, even though the voice is telling him insistently that _handing the former assassin a gun is probably a really awful idea…_

As soon as Snake is safely out of the way, Cub fires off the rounds so quickly that Snake actually jumps. By the time he's come to his senses, and takes in the sight of the target, he blinks in surprise. Five new bullets are lodged in the centre of the bullseye.

A grin is playing at Cub's lips.

"Don't beat yourself up. You did pretty well… you know, for someone of your age."

Snake balks. "You cheeky little shit…"

He's about to show Cub exactly what _someone of his age_ can do, when something catches his eye behind Cub, and he stops. Cub spins around, and the smile fades from his face.

Wolf is a silhouette against the dying light, trudging slowly across the clearing. He's wearing full dress uniform, and he's holding something in his hand. Snake tries to steel himself for whatever news he might be bearing. He was in London today, for the final verdict on what will happen to the former head of MI6. Wolf's presence was required, but Cub wasn't allowed to be there. All his interviews had been anonymous, his identity concealed with a voice scrambler.

"News?" Cub asks. He's doing a pretty good job at trying to sound neutral, even casual, but Snake catches the tense quality behind his voice, like a rubber band pulled taut. Cub's own fate is still swinging in the balance. He was taken to London for questioning weeks ago, but he was brought back the next day, and since then, they've just been waiting. If Blunt has gotten off the hook, it won't look good for Cub…

"See for yourself."

Wolf tosses the object at him. A newspaper. Cub catches it deftly, and his hands scrabble to find the front page. Snake hears his breath hitch and takes a step closer, and manages to catch the headline over the kid's shoulder.

 _ **Head of MI6 jailed in torturous disgrace**_

 _Thank fuck_ , Snake thinks.

"Tactful headline," he comments sarcastically, after the initial relief has sunk in.

Cub either doesn't hear him or doesn't care about the pun at his expense. His head is still buried in the newspaper; he moves away from them a little as he skims the article, his eyes moving so quickly that they're practically a blur.

"At least it's good news," Wolf says gruffly, although he looks a little sour.

"How many years?" Snake inquires.

"Eight. And those arsehole agents got five each."

Indignation rises up in Snake. "Only five?"

He can practically hear Wolf grit his teeth. "The fuckers have contacts in high places. Hell, they _are_ high places." Wolf shoots a glance at Cub, before edging closer to Snake and speaking in a lower voice. "It was the torture tapes that swung it for us. The defence attorney Six hired is supposed to be some kind of miracle worker. I thought she'd won at one point. But you should have seen the jury's face when they played those tapes."

Wolf grimaces. Snake has to suppress his own shudder at the memory. For the last few weeks, his nights have been filled with tense, jumpy dreams about bodies soaked in blood and distant screaming that he can never seem to reach, no matter how hard he looks.

"… Target practice, Snake? Really?"

Snake looks up to see Wolf glancing from the bullseye to him in disbelief, clearly just realising what they'd been out here doing before he arrived.

"I wanted to see what the kid could do," Snake says defensively.

Wolf looks incredulous, but Snake cuts him off before he can start berating him.

"Look, we're in an SAS camp. We're surrounded by weapons. He's going to have to use a gun sooner or later. And we need to start trusting the kid, if this is going to work."

Despite his persona, Snake knows Wolf, knows him well enough to know that Wolf is actually a worrier. He would never have been the first one to hand Cub a gun. That's why he needs Snake; that's why they need to work as a team.

"If what's going to work?" Cub's voice cuts through the clearing.

Damned spies, sneaking up on people like nobody's business.

"Nothing," says Snake, turning to face Cub, who looks equal parts interested and wary. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about it, Cub."

Wolf backs him up, if a little grudgingly. "When you need to know about something, you'll know about it. Okay?"

Snake sees Cub's mouth twist. Of course he doesn't like being kept in the dark about something; he's a spy. But then he concedes, and nods, and drops it. Snake thinks they might be making some progress with this whole trust thing.

"So," says Snake, changing the subject. "Pleased with the verdict?"

Cub just nods, as if Snake has asked him about his maths homework or something.

"Bastard should have gotten longer than eight years," Wolf grumbles, but Cub just shrugs.

"He'll never work in Intelligence again. Nobody who values their credibility will go near him. That's what matters. I don't really care where he spends the rest of his days."

Snake looks down to hide the twinge that in his chest at Cub's words. Damn it all to hell – this is why he can't help but like Cub. He's not in this for revenge, even though ninety per cent of people would be, Snake probably included.

"Come on," says Snake. "It's too dark to shoot. Let's head back."

For the last month and a half, Cub has been here, in Brecon Beacons, training, recovering, staying in K Unit's old barracks. Snake and Wolf have been put on duty watching him - Cubsitting, as they've come to call it - and they've been keeping their distance from the rest of the camp. They still get some strange looks from the new recruits every now and then; they make an odd team, two fully fledged SAS soldiers and a teenager, with no questions allowed to be asked. But by now, their presence here has generally been accepted. And Cub is back to being Cub, rather than Rider. Rider, the famed assassin, was kept here only briefly, months ago, before he was removed from the premises. Cub, K Unit's old teammate, arrived shortly after. And never the twain shall meet.

They don't know what's going to happen from here. Well, _Cub_ doesn't know what's going to happen. Wolf and Snake have been let in on the SAS's plans.

Snake bites his lip as he watches Cub make his way back to the cap, his hands shoved in his pockets. He's doing a good job at hiding the fact that he's scared, but Snake knows better. Cub fully expects to be locked up in a high security prison.

Fuck. Snake realises that he really doesn't want that to happen; he's come to know the kid over the last couple of months, and he doesn't want that to be the end to his story. He's holding out hope that this idea of the Sergeant's will work out.

.

.

 _Seven months later_

Wolf leans against the wall of the cabin and blows all the breath out of his lungs. The air in the room is tense enough to be cut with a knife. Nobody is speaking. They're gathered around the wide table in the middle of the Sergeant's office, which is littered with various forms of blueprints, maps, files, and forms. The Sergeant's face is set grimly as he leans over them, picking up one after the other and examining them, completely ignoring the rest of the room. Snake is over in the corner, and there are a few other soldiers present, some of which Wolf recognises, some of which he doesn't.

When the door swings open, Cub seems to sense the severity of the situation immediately. His eyes go round, and he glances at Wolf questioningly. Wolf doesn't have a chance to send the kid any kind of warning signal before he's practically pushed into a chair. His eyes rove over the paperwork, taking it all in.

"Do you know what the date is today?" the Sergeant begins. He doesn't give Cub a chance to answer. "It's February the thirteenth."

Cub's eyes flash meaningfully.

"As of today, you're officially an adult, Cub. Congratulations."

Wolf sees Cub bite his lip, and then look down at his feet.

"Is this your way of telling me I'm going to jail?" he asks quietly.

The Sergeant doesn't answer. Instead, he pushes a piece of paper in front of him. A blueprint. When Cub goes to pick it up, the Sergeants holds it down for a moment with one hand.

"The SAS don't work with children. No matter how exceptional they may be."

Wolf sees Cub's face crease with confusion. The Sergeant lifts his hand, and lets him take the piece of paper. As Cub studies it, he only looks more confused.

"But you're no longer a child. A situation arose a few days ago. Some international police forces are working to contain it, but I suggested that we have someone who might be able to help. You're looking at a map of an area where a Scorpia assassin is expected to be in the next few days, to take a hit. We need to work out where they're going to be and send in security to apprehend them when they arrive."

Cub looks up sharply. Wolf sees realisation dawn across his face. He looks incredulous, shocked.

The SAS is giving him a second chance. Not wiping the slate clean per se, but a chance to use what he knows, to work for them. They're putting their trust in him.

"Do you think you can help us, Cub?" the Sergeant asks.

The whole room seems to hold its breath.

And then Cub draws himself together, lays the map down on the table, and starts speaking.

"It all depends on where the target is going to be. Assuming it's one of the three spots in red, I'd be looking for somewhere on the high ground. Here - or maybe here, that's the spot I would choose, if it were me that they sent in. Scorpia teach their hitmen that vantage is more important than cover. They'll need an established getaway point whether they hit or miss, so they need to make sure they're going to get a hit. But they'll still scope out the area well, so if you send in your men beforehand, they need to be well hidden. You should be prepared for Scorpia to send more than one hitman as well, two, or as many as three, given that the information has leaked. It's pretty rare for this kind of info to get out of Scorpia without them noticing at all, so you should be prepared for it to be a set-up as well, and remember they're not afraid to sacrifice civilians to get the job done…"

The Sergeant and the other soldiers listen, rapt, hanging off his every word. As Cub speaks, he seems to stand taller, more confidently, and his voice grows louder and stronger until it fills the room.

In the corner, Wolf grins, not bothering to hide the pride that's swelling up inside of him. He knows, deep in his gut, that Cub is going to do just fine.

 _ **Fin**_


End file.
